Slashers
by notmanos
Summary: (Pre-Supernatural) While John and Bobby go after a ruthless pack of werewolves, teenaged Dean and Sam are left with a couple of old friends of John for safety. But something goes terribly wrong, and while John and Bobby face the pack, Dean and Sam find themselves fighting against opponents who are monsters in name only.
1. After You Comes The Flood

_N.B.: This comes after the story Hell night, but it's not necessary for you to read that to get this. _

* * *

_1 - After You Comes The Flood_

_Then_

Dean hit the dirt, and blood flooded his mouth. He had come to learn to hate the taste of his own blood. Dad smacked him on the back of the head. Not hard, just enough to let him know he got a kill shot in. "Again," Dad said.

Dean pushed himself up to his knees with a sigh. He really didn't want to be doing this anymore. He ached all over, and was sure he'd have some spectacular bruises tonight.

He couldn't remember whose house they were staying at right now, just some vague friend of Dad they had never met. But he had his backyard done up like a gym. There were heavy bags hanging from the limbs of an oak tree, a tackling dummy, some targets for either arrows, guns, or both, and a slightly raised sand pit that Dad was currently using as a sparring ring.

Dean looked up at his Dad, who was back in fighting stance. From this vantage point, he seemed huge and unbeatable. Not for the first time, Dean wondered what the point of this was. He was a fifteen year old kid. He'd been on hunting missions and survived. All this sparring and testing his fighting abilities seemed really pointless. Dean knew he was better at it than any kid his age. Hell, didn't he fight off four sixteen year old assholes the other day? Made them look like the shitheads they were. He wanted to see them bully kids now, with their limps and their casts. Of course Dad got mad at him, 'just 'cause he was better trained than the civvies. Hardly seemed fair.

"Dad, you're too big," Dean said. "I'm never getting the drop on you."

John Winchester looked down at him and scowled. "If you can't take me down, you're never taking down anything."

"I have-"

"You have to be ready, Dean," Dad snapped. "You have to be able to take on things much bigger and harder than you. Your life depends on it. Your brother's life depends on it. Now get up and try again."

Dean felt that like a barb in his heart. He wasn't worried about himself so much, because he'd survived a lot of shit. But Sammy was just a kid, and Dad was gone more often than not. It was all on him to make sure nothing happened to him.

Dean turned his head to the side and spit out blood before climbing painfully to his feet, and taking up his battle stance. He was going to do this, or he was going to die trying.

He had no choice, no matter how much he wished he did.

* * *

_Later_

Dean wasn't exactly jazzed by the thought of Dad leaving them with some of his friends again, especially since he was nineteen and more than capable of looking after himself and Sammy. But then he found out they were staying with the Reyes', and he changed his mind.

"Uncle" Hector and "Aunt" Cecilia were fucking great. They had this awesome cabin in the absolute middle of nowhere in the Northern California highlands, which would normally be kind of a bummer, because he couldn't sneak out to a bar late at night - it was something like twenty miles to the nearest place, and that was just a convenience store and gas station. A real disappointment. But the cabin was pretty tricked out, and they were great. Cecilia had amazing taste in movies, and Hector was an amazing cook. The best food Dean had ever eaten, bar none, was Hector's, and occasionally he'd talk about saving up and leaving the hunting "game" and opening his own restaurant. But when he talked about it, he and Cecilia shared this look that Dean came to think of as "never going to happen" expression. As far as Dean could tell, no one retired from hunting - you stopped hunting when you were dead. Full stop. Which was a real shame, because the world was getting robbed of Hector's cooking.

Sam seemed to like the idea of it too, which was a kind of relief. Ever since the New York thing, where they captured an amanjaku and saved Dad, Sam had been kind of grouchy. Dean figured it was hormones hitting him hard, since he was fifteen, and that wasn't a great age, from what Dean could remember. Weird how so many of his childhood memories were kind of blurred, like he barely experienced them. Maybe he'd already taken one too many shots to the head.

But when Dean thought about it, he couldn't help but feel a little miffed Dad wasn't taking him with him. He was on his way to the midwest, to finally track down this murderous group of werewolves, who seemed to have a serial killer amongst them. They were nasty and hard to find, but Bobby had some solid leads, and he and Dad were going to find them and finish them off. Dean wanted to go, but Dad said it was too dangerous, and he wanted them out of it. Dean took that as meaning he wanted Sam out of it, and Dean was simply collateral, which didn't feel great. But wasn't he used to it by now? Someone had to keep an eye on the kid, and it was almost always him.

At least it was a beautiful time of year for Northern California. The trees were lush, and wildflowers added splashes of color amongst the shadows of the forest as they drove to the cabin.

Finding it was always a trip, as you had to travel down a couple of dirt roads, one of them a long unused logging road that was slowly but surely being swallowed up by weeds. The slightly higher elevation made his ears pop, but the good part of that was they wouldn't have to endure the higher heat of the rest of California. It always seemed a bit cool up in the mountains, which Dean occasionally appreciated. Except when the snow was four feet high and you were freezing your ass off. That he hated.

Dean wanted to play this cool, like it was no big deal, but upon seeing them, Cecelia and Hector came over and gave them hugs, and Dean was so happy he could have burst. They gave the best hugs.

They went with Cecilia to the cabin while Dad and Hector broke off to have a whispered conversation by the car. Dean was dying to know what they were talking about, but he knew he wasn't going to be a part of this hunt, no matter what, so he simply followed Cecilia inside.

And he was so glad he did. It turned out Hector had made a pie for them, grilled peach, which Dean had never had before, but it was immediately the best pie he had ever had. Grilling peaches made them fantastic, and apparently he also put a little bourbon in the sauce as well. Goddamn. Dean wanted to grab a fork and take the whole pie with him, but he supposed he needed to share. Boo.

Even though he still kind of resented being here and not out hunting, there really was no place he'd rather be.

* * *

John wondered if he wasn't dumping his problems at someone else's door. If so, Hector and Cecilia didn't deserve it.

Sam had been basically unbearable since the New York City debacle, and John didn't know how much he could blame him for that. After all, it was John's mistake that put him and Dean in danger, and it could have killed them all. Somehow it didn't, and for that he was grateful, but Sam clearly still blamed him. Teenage hormones were probably making this worse, but to be honest, Sam had had a chip on his shoulder for a while. It just seemed to be getting worse the farther he went into teendom. Had he been that way as a kid? John hoped not.

Not for the first time, he found himself wishing Sam would take after Dean more. Did Dean have an attitude about this? No. Dean didn't complain. He knew what he had to do, did it, and went on his way. He was a good soldier. John had found himself wondering where things had gone so wrong with Sam, and he still had no answer.

He knew Hector from their time in the Marines, so the fact that they both ended up hunters was a type of bitter irony that John kept stumbling over in his life. Hector had come by hunting in a very strange way. He'd been working as a sous chef down at a restaurant in Baja when it was attacked one night by vampires. Hector survived, but almost no one else did, and the restaurant was burned to the ground. Cecilia was a female hunter Hector had met when he first started looking into it, and they'd been together ever since. John couldn't help but be a tiny bit jealous of that. His early hunting days were very fraught.

As soon as they greated the boys, Cecilia ushered the kids into the house. She was on the early side of forty, but she seemed much younger, and while on the short side, had surprising strength in a literal sense. John's arms weren't nearly as toned as hers were. She'd cut her long black hair short, but it suited her.

Hector was pretty much the same, as he always had been since boot camp. He was starting to get a bit of a gut, but honestly it just made him seem more formidable. He was a bit shorter than John, but he had the kind of fireplug build of old timey boxers, and was just as tough. And yet, he had this pronounced softer side that liked cooking and gardening, and he loved the boys. Once, he asked Hector why he and Cecilia hadn't had kids, since he seemed like the fatherly type, and Hector said they couldn't imagine bringing kids into this world full of monsters. That was before he knew about the boys, of course. But John couldn't blame them for the sentiment. John didn't like to think about what would happen to them if he got killed by some creepy crawly. Right now, all he could do was hope Dean was tough enough to handle it. Sometimes he had his doubts.

Hector motioned John over, to one side, and he went with him. "So I heard this story," Hector said quietly. "About an amanjaku in New York?"

John nodded. "Some rich asshole was actually importing onis, for who knows what reason. He got a more dangerous one than he was expecting. It was nearly a disaster."

Hector threw a quick glance towards his wife and the kids. "And did I hear right, that the boys caught it?"

"They did, yeah. They got lucky."

Hector raised his eyebrows in wide eyed disbelief. "You make your own luck, and you mostly do that by being good. How do two kids get that lucky?" Hector stepped closer, and lowered his voice even more. "They're just kids, right? They do normal kid stuff?"

John's brow furrowed. "Are you implying something?"

"No, I'm just ... wondering how a nineteen year old and a fifteen year old kid accomplished something that most adult hunters couldn't."

He wished this as the first time he'd heard this question. He could hardly come out and admit it bothered him a little too. Of course, Dean had fucked up by exposing so many people to the amanjaku, and he wanted to point it out, but considering they rescued him from the storage container where Rob had knocked him out, he felt like he couldn't really say anything. No, he could, but he'd feel like a hypocrite. John was also aware he was taking too long to answer this question. "I wish I knew what to tell you. They're really smart. Must get that from their mother's side."

Hector smiled wanly at his weak joke, but John could still see he was troubled. He didn't blame him. John had been back and forth with himself on this. Had he trained them too much? Or, considering how Dean went about it, had he not trained him enough? He went back and forth with himself about this, and he seemed to land on different answers depending on the day.

John could see Hector make the decision to let this go. While he had a perfect stone face, his eyes were always expressive. "So Bobby's got a line on the howls?"

The "howls" was the absolutely asinine name that this group of werewolves called themselves. Supposedly they were a biker gang before someone got turned, and then the whole crew turned, and stayed together. And had a multi-state crime spree running for almost a year. Despite being flashy and dumb, most people were too damned scared to say anything, and while they left a tornado of destruction in their wake, they were eerily good at covering their tracks. But, according to Bobby, they pissed off another group of wolves, who pretty much sold them out. They probably wanted them gone so they could claim their territory, but motive didn't really matter at this point. Taking them off the board would be a relief. John nodded. "Thanks for looking after the boys, Heck. I'll be back as soon as possible."

Hector waved a hand in a shooing gesture. "The kids are a joy to have. Don't worry about it. Just be careful out there. They may be dumbass werewolves, but they're still werewolves. Being dumb actually makes them more dangerous."

"Oh, don't I know it." John slapped him lightly on the shoulder before turning away, back towards the Impala. It did occur to him now and again that maybe the boys would be better off if he never came back. If he left them with someone like Hector and Cecilia for good. Maybe they could cobble together something like a normal life.

But then he'd remember what he found out about the yellow eyed demon, and the vague but menacing "plans" he had for the kids infected with his blood. Unless John found a cure, or a way to kill the demon, that fate was always coming for Sam. Anything resembling a normal life for him would, at some point, implode, leaving him what? John didn't know; he only knew it was nothing good. He owed it to Mary to try and save him. Or ...

No, he wasn't even finishing that thought. He was going to save Sam, or he was going to die trying. That was the only way it could be. Whether they ever forgave him for it or not was totally up to them.


	2. Illusions of Safety

_2 -Illusions of Safety_

Sam liked Hector and Cecilia , he really did, but he was still really pissed off at their Dad. He'd been tempted to say so to Dean, but he knew he'd make a joke of it, so he said nothing.

What was the point of _any _of this? Dad breezed into their life for maybe a week, and then went out again, to be seen ... whenever. Did they matter to him at all? Dean would claim that they did, but honestly, going by his actions ... they were a pain. A responsibility he didn't want, or a reminder of his dead wife, or both. And Sam was fucking done with it.

Frankly, he wanted to stay in the same school for most of a year. Would that be so bad? He wanted to run the tables of his grades, maybe get a college scholarship, and be done with this madness. Especially after that thing with the oni. Yeah, he and Dean took it down, so yaay them, but why did they have to? And how many people got hurt due to their Dad's carelessness, and their flailing to find an answer? Sam didn't like to think about it too much, because the guilt was overwhelming. He wished he could be Dean, and drink it away, or never really think about it. However he coped.

That was a cop out. Dean coped by combining denial with drinking, and occasional other vices, including sex and drugs. Dean was a mess. But Dad didn't know. He was the good little soldier for Dad, and the moment he was gone, he was swigging from his ever-present flask, or sneaking out at one in the morning. Sam was willing to bet Dean thought he didn't know about that. He thought he was a lot smoother than he ever really was.

Actually, Sam was willing to bet cash he didn't have that both Dad and Dean thought he didn't notice quite a lot of things, or that they were successfully protecting him from them. He stopped thinking they thought he was stupid, though. They thought he was young, and missing things simply because he had his own drama to deal with, but he saw everything. Well, almost everything.

Dad was keeping something from both of them. After New York, he and Dean compared notes. They both knew they were being left out of some loop, that Dad was doing something he wasn't telling them about, but they had no clue what. When John Winchester wanted to keep a secret, goddamn it, he could. Sam thought they should confront him about it, present a united front, and make him tell them, but Dean insisted that wouldn't work, that it would probably have the opposite effect and make him dig his heels in deeper. Dean was most likely right - was there a more stubborn asshole in the world than their Dad? - but he didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. Okay, so, maybe some of that pettiness ran in the family. Lies and pettiness. What a great bloodline.

Sam didn't feel good about being in such an isolated place, although New York kind of drove him crazy. It was crowded everywhere, and there was nothing but asphalt, and it gave Sam heretofore unknown feelings of claustrophobia. He could now worry that he had become somehow allergic to big cities, no matter how boring he found rural towns. It made him afraid that he wouldn't be happy anywhere, another Winchester affliction he didn't want. God, they were all so damaged - could an entire family get a do-over? Because they desperately needed one.

Hector's and Cecilia's place didn't quite evoke the same feelings of home that Bobby's did, but it wasn't as messy or melancholic as Bobby's place either. It looked like a home sane people lived in, mainly because all the hunter stuff was hidden. Like, there was a fake wall panel beside the bookcase, very well camouflaged, that contained a variety of hunting goods, from salt to weapons. There were many hidden caches like this inside the cabin, but the best was in the kitchen. If you looked beneath the rug by the stove, there was a trap door. It led into a thing that pretty much didn't exist in most of California - a basement. Well, a glorified root cellar. But Hector and Cecilia made it themselves, and it contained lots of the heavier weaponry and supplies, and also had a hidden hatch that led to the outside. Because Cecilia was big on having an exit point. Her major hunting tip was to always have a back up exit strategy in case things went tits up, which was just good general advice as far as Sam was concerned. When things went bad, running should always be an option.

Because this was still a cabin, no matter how many renovations they had done, he and Dean basically had to share the back library, which was turned into a guest room, but that was okay. Sure, they had their own rooms at Bobby's, but you couldn't help but get this sad kind of feeling at Bobby's place after a while. He seemed to be a man haunting his own house. It was too big for him alone, at least in theory - piles of books and artifacts had shrunk the dimensions of each room, making them more manageable. Bobby had refused to tell him how he got into hunting, because it was apparently sad and he didn't like to talk about it. But Sam and Dean had pieced some of it together. It involved his wife, that much they knew. And it was a shock to think that Bobby had ever been married. The fact that all hints of his wife had basically been scrubbed away was also a pretty chilling detail.

Sam put his backpack on his bed, and sighed, glad to be rid of everyone for the moment. At least it was easy to find peace and quiet here. He could wander into the woods surrounding the cabin, and spend the whole day away from everyone. Which sounded like a good plan. He was going through his bag, picking out a book to take with him, when Hector showed up and knocked politely on the open door. "Hey kiddo, I was wondering if you'd like to help me with a project."

That surprised him. Usually he wrangled Dean for one of his projects. "What?"

"I'm putting together a sort of mystical lock box for an artifact. Thought you might like to help me with the warding."

Sam couldn't help but be intrigued, almost in spite of himself. "What kind of artifact?"

"Come on, I'll show you."

Part of Sam knew this was a trap, but he went anyway, dropping his paperback on his bed and following Hector. The cabin had a small woodshed in the back, and he went there, with Sam following behind.

The woodshed was somehow smaller than their basement, but at least it was warmer and brighter, and smelled of wood chips rather than soil. There wasn't much in it besides a work bench and a wall full of tools - no hidden caches here - and on top of the work bench now was a small bag of silky blue cloth, which couldn't have looked more out of place. "I'd tell you to keep it a secret, but any adults saying that to kids makes my skin crawl," Hector admitted, opening the bag. "But, please, let's keep this in house, okay?"

Holding it by its very corroded looking chain, Hector pulled out a necklace. It looked both old and gaudy, with some kind of metal in a starburst pattern as the pendant, and in the middle was ... a gemstone? Except, no, it wasn't, because it appeared to be a deep blue-black, which was not a gemstone color Sam was aware of, and also, unless it was a trick of the light, it appeared to be moving. Just swirling back and forth inside the gem bubble. "What the hell ..?" He leaned in for a closer look, but Hector pulled it back.

"Ooh, try not to touch this. That's why I'm building a box. The bag's great, but blessed cloth can only go so far."

That was a new one to Sam too. Blessed cloth? "What is this?"

"It's the Star of Anqara."

Weirdly enough, Sam had heard of that, thanks to Bobby. It was basically one of the holy grails of hunters, an artifact everyone wanted to find. It was an amulet either created by a black magician or a demon - it depended on which one of the variations of the tale you heard - that had the "soul" of a demon in it. Which brought up so many theological issues it was a nightmare, but that was besides the point. It could supposedly do a whole host of evil things, and killed the person who wielded it, so it was a kind of a mystical suicide bomb. You got one chance with it, so you had to make it count. Attempts to destroy it had been many and futile, and it had been hunted for for centuries, according to the tales. Also, according to the tales, there were some people who would pay out the nose to own it. Like, up into the millions of dollars, which seemed crazy to Sam. It was an old - and apparently tacky - necklace that could only bring misery, and would instantly kill you regardless. Why would someone want it? "Holy shit. Where did you find it?"

Hector put it carefully back in the blue silk bag, making sure the pendant part came nowhere near him. "You're not gonna believe me, but me and Celia came across it at an estate sale of some former Hollywood producer. Can you believe that? And to make it worse, it was lumped in with a whole bunch of costume jewelry. Apparently no one involved knew exactly what they had. We bought the whole lot for twenty bucks. Which reminds me. If you have someone you don't like very much who you still need to get a present for, I can give you a fistful of ugly jewelry."

That made Sam smile. Maybe he should give Dad a big, garish brooch for Christmas. "So what are you gonna do with it?"

"Well, destroying it is apparently out of the question, so I've decided to hide it. I'm gonna put it in a couple of warded boxes, and bury it in the forest. Most likely under an animal carcass or something, something to discourage anyone who might look for it." Hector reached up, and pulled a box off the one high shelf. It was clearly handmade, and very well done for it, although currently missing a lid. There was one sigil on it that Sam recognized, and it meant unbreakable, or something like that.

Hector also shifted what looked like a small collection of papers on the workbench towards him, and Sam saw it was a sort of cliff notes of symbolism. "I need to decide what else I'm gonna etch on this box. I have limited room, and I have to make every one count. No one can ever find this thing, by accident or on purpose. So I'd appreciate the input."

Sam looked at the pages, scanning what he had. Cecilia could have helped him with this, so could have Dean, but he picked him. Maybe he was just throwing a bone to the poor, forgotten younger kid, but Sam would be lying if he didn't admit that it felt really good to be needed for once.

* * *

John already knew doing a hunt with Bobby was not going to be pleasant, not after how they left it last time, but he was trying to keep positive. Maybe they could set aside their differences, and just work to solve this common problem like grown ups.

And maybe the yellow eyed demon would write him an apology note and bake him a batch of cookies.

They had fought about what they always fought about - the boys. Bobby didn't approve of the way he was raising them and whatnot, which seemed rich coming from a man who had no children, and had basically dedicated himself to a life of monster hunting solitude. Also, what about that time he put the boys in danger? He knew there was a torture demon running around town, and he actively encouraged Dean to ignore his order to get Sam out of there. Sure, it turned out okay in the end - okay if you considered Dean being in the hospital for a few days okay, which he did not - but it could have gone badly in a million different ways. He didn't care if the boys wanted to stay and help him run it down. They were boys, and they should have had no part in a demon hunt.

But John told himself he was going to bigger man this time. They had a job to do, and to be brutally honest, it was probably way too much for them alone. Bobby said he knew some good hunters who would be able to help them, and John was trusting that Bobby actually did. He couldn't get into an argument with him about the boys.

He could save that for after the job was done.

John rendezvoused with Bobby at a cheap roadside motel outside of Tulsa, where Bobby had been for the last couple of days gathering intel. Bobby let him in, and both he and John managed to be civil and not get into a screaming argument. So far, so good.

Bobby's motel room was small, and really quite homely - the best he could describe it as was refugee '70's decor - but it didn't look super lived in. At least Bobby had actually been out doing his job. John had no idea why he opened his closet door, until he saw a map tacked up to the inside of it, and ringed with photographs. "This is where the howls are staying," Bobby said, pointing at the photo on the bottom right.

John leaned in for a better look. It looked like a sprawling ranch house, very average, only notable for being somewhat large, and set back on a good chunk of property that had probably seen better years. "The owners haven't been seen for over a week, so I'm thinkin' ..."

"Wolf chow?"

Bobby nodded, lips thinned to a grim line. "It fits the M.O. too, since nowhere they've stayed has ever had a living witness left behind." Bobby moved his finger to the map, and a line drawn on it in Sharpie. "There's a back road to the property. It isn't paved for the last half mile, but we don't wanna go in that far anyway. No matter how noisy it gets, they're gonna hear car engines."

"Noisy?" John wondered.

"They throw week long parties at whatever place they're staying in," Bobby said, rolling his eyes. "The only difference between their parties and your average dirtbag rager is they leave bodies behind with the beer cans."

This brought up an aspect John hadn't considered before. "There aren't civilians at these things that aren't prisoners, are there?"

From the way Bobby sighed heavily, he knew the answer before he said a word. "Sometimes, yeah. If it makes you feel any better, most don't leave alive or human."

Great. That complicated things. "How many people are we looking at here?"

"That's a hard question to answer. Usually no more than a dozen or so, but it varies. If we attack after one in the morning, most of them should be gone or passed out."

"And the wolves should be drunk off their asses, which may give us an edge. How many other hunters are coming?"

"Jack and Rosie are already here," Bobby told him. If he was reading his posture correctly, Bobby was tired. But who wouldn't be after tailing these assholes? "Rufus is too busy with a haunted house in Detroit, supposedly. Julie should be here within the hour, and I haven't heard back from Jeff, so we might have to go without him."

"They good?"

Bobby gave him a scalding look, but if he was going to snap at him, he managed to hold it back. "Very. And all have dealt with werewolves before. No rookies on this squad."

"Good. I'm ready to roll out when you are."

Bobby let out a humorous grunt as he closed the closet door. "You might wanna cool your jets there, sport. We got four hours 'til midnight, when we should head out. I'm gonna go get something to eat." Bobby shrugged on his coat, and walked towards the door. He paused before stepping out, and politeness overcame their natural wariness of each other. He turned back, and asked, "Wanna come with?"

John could just imagine how tense that would be. It would be like eating with a wolverine, and wondering when the little bugger was going to try and rip your throat out. At least Bobby felt much the same way about him. "Nah." He opened the closet, and gestured at the photos. "I'm gonna get more of an idea of the layout of the place."

Bobby nodded. "Good idea. There's some more photos on the nightstand, but most are pretty worthless. Lock the door when you leave."

"Sure." As soon as Bobby was gone, John let out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. It was amazing to think they'd once been pretty good friends. Well, kind of. And now they could hardly be in the same room together. Would he even deal with Bobby anymore if he wasn't one of the better hunters he'd ever met, and so generous with the boys? Because John knew, if he stepped away from Bobby like he honestly wanted to, it would break their hearts. And hadn't they had enough of that in their lives already?

John examined the map and the photographs, and had to admit on a very good day, he couldn't have even done half of this. In theory, since they knew the layout this well, it should have been easy. Sneak up, put some silver in some werewolves, and put an end to this particular nightmare.

But why did he have this feeling it wouldn't be that simple at all?

* * *

_N.B.: Creating my own continuity again. The demon incident John refers to happened in my story Gehenna. _


	3. Feel Nothing

Dean wondered if it was weird he had a little crush on Cecelia. Maybe?

Except he didn't really think of her in _that_ way. He just loved her. And how could you not fall in love with a lady who could argue worthiness of horror movie franchise entries while sharpening machetes? She also had a great love of cult cinema, leading to fantastic stories, like the time her drag queen uncle - who went by the name Auntie Maim - and her went to one of the early John Waters films in San Francisco, even though she was only sixteen, and they almost got arrested when a small riot broke out in front of the theater. Dean honestly didn't care if she was making this story up - he loved every minute of it.

She also had a weirdly quaint story about how she became a hunter. It began when she was at a sleepover at a girlfriend's place when she was seventeen, and encountered the ghost that lived in their apartment building. An old woman who basically kept to herself, although she got up to some relatively harmless mischief, the most violent of which was knocking photos off walls and phones off tables. Cecelia was shocked when she encountered other ghosts, and found they weren't as friendly or accommodating as Mrs. Chen.

Although Dean was honestly tired of cleaning guns - even though he could do said chore in his sleep, and probably had - he helped her clean some guns, while they argued about which the best horror movie ever was - he was holding out for The Thing, while she was insisting on the out there Basket Case (could he love this woman more?) - and somehow they were done in no time flat. And it was also dusk. Weird.

Hector made an amazing dinner he called rigatoni alla Genovese, and then they watched the glorious cheesy movie The Warriors, which was bananas late '70's film-making at its finest. It was ridiculous in all the best ways, and Dean kind of low keyed loved it. He absolutely envied Cecelia's DVD collection.

Although Dean did miss sneaking out to a bar, truth be told he was kind of tired. Honestly, he'd been skating by on about four hours of sleep a day for the last couple of weeks. It was stupid and bad for him, he knew it, but like most things, knowing it was bad for him didn't stop him at all. But as soon as his head hit his pillow, he was out cold. He might be young, but apparently sleep deprivation knew no age.

Maybe that's why, when he was first woken up, he wasn't sure where he was, or what had roused him. All he knew was he felt vaguely alarmed, and had already reached beneath his pillow to retrieve his knife before he even realized it. Dean sat on the edge of his bed, listening as the fog started to clear from his brain.

He heard arguing.

It wasn't in the cabin. It was outside, and it was two men, although it sounded like at least one man was interjecting from time to time. One of them was Hector, but that was all he knew.

By the time Dean got up and crossed to the window, Sam had woken up too. "What's going on?" he asked. He didn't sleep with a weapon under his pillow, so he wasn't brandishing anything.

"Dunno," Dean said, peeking out from behind the curtain. It was super dark outside, and he wasn't sure he was at the right vantage point to see anything. He thought he saw shadows in the shapes of men, more than a couple. Three? Four? Did that include Hector? Dean got a bad feeling about all of this.

Sam crept up behind him quietly, but Dean was still aware he was there. He let Sam look out, in the hopes he could see more than Dean could. "Anything?" he asked.

Sam shook his head. "Too dark. Are they out front?"

There was a loud _crack_, like a firework going off, and Dean couldn't help but jolt at the sound as more gunfire started, little bursts of light in the dark, and he clearly heard Cecelia shout, "Code red! Code red!"

Although his blood turned to ice, Dean already snagged his coat - with the gun in it - and bodily pulled Sam out into the hall before he yanked his arm away. They both knew what a code red meant: run. Everything in Dean was screaming at him to go out there and help Hector and Cecelia, but he had no idea what was going on or what they were fighting, and the little voice of Dad in the back of his mind was telling him he had to take care of Sam first and foremost. Once he got him out of here, he could come back for Hector and Cecelia.

Since it sounded like the fight was out front, they headed for the back. But that was when the silence flooded in. Everyone had stopped shooting. But that didn't mean everyone was down. Dean's gut knotted like a fist, and a quick glance out the back window revealed dark movement that was by no means random. There was no going out the back door.

Dean was in full automaton mode. He wanted to be terrified, but he shoved it into the back of his mind, and focused on his immediate goals. He'd been trained for this.

Dean kicked over the rug by the stove, and popped open the hatch. "Come on, alternate route."

Sam somehow looked tired and fully awake at the same time. There was nothing like unexpected violence to leave you reeling. "What the hell's attacking us?"

"I dunno. Get down there."

Sam looked briefly like he wanted to argue, but no matter how off balance he was, he knew now was not the time. He went down the narrow staircase, and Dean quickly followed, shutting the door and throwing the bar lock across it as the small emergency lights flickered on, giving wan illumination to the dark. The fact that this room was small and smelled like dirt couldn't help but give the impression of being buried alive. It was just another fear Dean had to swallow back, because the worse was yet to come.

Sam moved to where the hidden door was, and paused. "We're really going to do this, huh?"

"No choice. I'm not looking forward to it either." After shrugging on his jacket, Dean went to the weapons cache, and pulled out a small gun he quickly loaded and held out towards Sam. As Sam took it, Dean noticed a new warded box besides the ammo stockpile. "This the Star of Anqara?"

"Yeah, Hector was going to do the final lock box tomorrow ..." The way Sam trailed off, Dean knew he was wondering if Hector was even alive. Dean was too. He could feel something turning to stone in his throat and his gut, but he had no time for it. He had to get Sam out of here, and then he could have a meltdown.

But Dean wondered if this being here, and the who/whatevers attacking them were related. He didn't quite believe it was a coincidence.

"Hey! Be careful," Sam exclaimed, as Dean opened the box and tipped it out. "That's dangerous." It was still inside a shiny silk bag, which he scooped up and dropped in his coat pocket.

"I know. C'mon, let's go." He heard thuds upstairs, someone breaking down a door. They couldn't have long.

Sam set the safety on his gun and tucked it in his pants before forcing open the emergency door. You had to crawl through it, on hands and knees, and the solid earth around you made you feel like you were tunneling through a grave. Also, there were no lights, so if you had claustrophobia and a fear of the dark, you were well and truly fucked. Dean honestly had neither, but he still fucking hated crawling through tight spaces like this. Even though he knew Hector and Cecilia had made this stable, his mind kept imagining this collapsing and burying them alive ... nope, he wasn't going to think about that. He couldn't.

Dean tried to distract himself by putting together the few clues he had. He'd heard voices, yes? Definitely Hector's, and at least two other men. Put that together with the shadows in the back, assuming they weren't the same men, and they were facing how many of these things? Four at a minimum. And he had no idea what kind of monsters they were. Also, they had guns.

There were so many shots fired he couldn't count them all, but a shootout involving at least six guns seemed plausible. The four strangers, and Hector and Cecilia. It was unclear who won that gunfight, but if it had been Hector or Cecilia, they would have known by now. They certainly wouldn't be breaking down their own front door.

Dean's stomach was full on aching now. They weren't dead. He wasn't going to allow the thought to enter his mind. They could be badly wounded and out of the fight. He was going to believe that until he had solid evidence to the contrary. Dean blinked away tears, and told himself it was just the dirt irritating his eyes.

It seemed to take forever, but was probably only a couple minutes. It was barely even two and a half meters from the cabin, the maximum they felt they could safely build it. The exit hatch was behind a thick tangle of blackberry bushes, usually hidden by a scrim of dirt and dead leaves, which fell down the moment Sam opened it.

As soon as they were topside, they crouched down behind the blackberry shrub, which was a wild tangle almost as tall as Dean was, so a decent hiding place. It was still pitch black, with meager light from a sliver of a crescent moon above. There were lights on in the cabin that Dean knew weren't on when they left. He wished he had binoculars or something, to see if any were still outside.

"Do you know what they are?" Sam whispered.

Dean was still asking himself this very question. He shook his head. "Not yet."

"So what's the plan?"

Oh god, he was asking all the worst things. He didn't know; he had no clue. They were super fucked. But no, he couldn't think that way. he could almost feel his Dad smacking him on the back of his head, and snapping, "Focus." Which was what he absolutely had to do.

What Dean wanted to do was run back to the cabin, guns blazing, but he still had no solid idea on how many attackers there were, and, most important thing, if standard bullets would even hurt them. If he got himself killed, Sam was dead for sure, so he couldn't do that.

Okay, so ... if he couldn't gather enough intelligence to figure out exactly what they were fighting, then they simply had to run. He knew where Hector and Cecilia both kept emergency keys in their cars, so all he had to do was get to one. He knew he could out drive these sons of bitches, no matter who they were. But if they saw him taking the car, they'd gun him down on sight. So, okay - he had to figure out how many there were, and where they were. All he needed was thirty clear seconds.

Dean was thinking of creating a distraction, when the back door of the cabin opened, and he saw one of the attackers as a shadow. A ridiculously huge shadow.

He was at least six and a half feet tall, maybe closer to seven, and so broad across the shoulders he almost filled the entire doorway. He looked relatively fit too. What the hell was he, three hundred pounds? Jesus Christ. Was he a professional bodybuilder? Oh shit - were Frankenstein monsters a thing? Dad said no, but seeing this guy, Dean wondered.

Suddenly a light stabbed out, and as the flashlight swung their way, both he and Sam ducked, although it was doubtful he could have seen them. But creatures didn't always need light to find their prey. They could follow scents, they could hear blood pulsing through veins, they could sense body heat. Light or lack thereof might not make that much difference at all.

Sam whispered, so low Dean could barely hear it, "They know we're out here."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, in the exact same tone. Dean wanted to think that maybe they didn't know, that they were simply double checking, but that wasn't how Winchester luck worked. That pretty much guaranteed everything that could go wrong did go wrong, and something you weren't aware of also went wrong. It was amazing that way.

Mentally, he did a weapons check. What did they have? Two guns, standard ammo - although Dean was pretty sure he had a silver bullet in one of his pockets - hunting knife. Also the Star of Anqara, although considering it killed who used it, he'd have to consider that an absolute last resort. But if he was going to die, it would be nice to take all these bastards with him.

"What are we gonna do?" Sam asked, his voice a ghostly whisper.

Dean was wondering how to answer that when he saw the silhouette of the humongous guy put away his flashlight, and swing something around from his back. He only got an impression of a shape, but it was enough to alarm him. Dean shoved Sam to the ground as multiple bullets began flying into the woods, shredding leaves and sending bark and small branches flying.

He had an automatic weapon? They were so fucking boned it wasn't even funny anymore.


	4. Man of War

_4 - Man of War_

The worst part of any hunt was waiting for the shit to start. Well, after almost being killed, and watching your friends get killed. Okay, it was the third or fourth worst thing on a hunt. Bobby knew he should sit down and make a list someday, if only to keep it straight in his own mind.

He was distracting himself and he knew it. It was just too weird between him and John now. His first impulse was to punch him the moment he saw him, but he tamped it down. John was younger than him, and while Bobby was sure he could hold his own - and kick his ass - realistically, John would probably eventually win. And them getting in a physical fight again would just upset the boys.

Besides, wasn't there a positive here? He didn't bring them, therefore they weren't in danger. Success! For once. Assuming he didn't leave them on their own in some run down shed in the middle of nowhere, with a day's worth of food and no money ...

Okay, he was drifting again, and he couldn't allow it. Especially not tonight. Too many things could go wrong.

Of course, considering it was a quarter of one in the morning, and he was walking across a weed choked field, holding a shotgun full of silver buckshot, you'd think he was the thing that went wrong. But he was only the symptom. The disease was up ahead.

For a while there was only the sound of his feet crunching on hay dry weeds, and the distant noise of some kind of hard rock blaring from the house. From this distance, it was just a nearly industrial thump of bass and drums. Eventually he heard a scream that turned his blood cold, but then it dissolved into cackling, drunken hooting, which morphed into a half-assed howl, which made Bobby very angry. These were the types of werewolves who really got off on their "wolfness", didn't they? That's probably why they left so many people and animals behind, with their throats and hearts torn out. He caught a smell that got stronger the closer he got to the house, but he couldn't really identify it, save to say it was a weirdly chemical smell, like burning acetate. What the hell were the wolves doing to the house? They'd have to have real shit for brains to light the house on fire while they were still in it, but he honestly didn't put it past them. There was a strong possibility they'd accidentally kill themselves before the hunters even had a chance.

Bobby was aware of Rosie, who had outpaced him, and was several meters ahead on the far right of his vision, but she wasn't always easy to make out, because she had actually worn all black. She was teased about dressing like a ninja, but she was getting the last laugh, because it was nearly impossible to see her. Of course, wolves would be able to smell her, but Bobby thought, with that chemical stench, that no longer applied. You'd think, with their superior sense of smell, they'd want to go far away from the stink, but apparently not. When the wind changed direction and hit him straight in the face, the smell made his eyes water. Christ, that was terrible. He was wondering if he should make an impromptu mask out of water - well, okay, whiskey - and a bandanna. Probably wouldn't make the air any healthier to breathe, but the whiskey ought to overpower the basic smell. It had kind of a burned hair note to it, and Bobby did wonder if one of the wolves had passed out with a cigarette in his mouth and set himself on fire. Although that begged the question why weren't his friends putting him out?

The hunters were all approaching from different directions, in case the wolves tried to flee, although these didn't seem like the type. But, to be fair, no one seemed the type until they were looking death in the face, and then everyone had the instinct to run.

It probably wasn't the time to experiment, but Bobby had airplane sized booze bottles filled with silver nitrate and colloidal silver with him this time. If he was right, it would burn werewolves like holy water burned a demon. Now admittedly, it wouldn't kill them unless they somehow drank it, but it was nice to have an option, and there was no better way to test it than on some murdering werewolf dickholes.

The house slowly came into view. It was lit up like a Christmas tree on the inside, and he could catch glimpses of movement when someone passed a window, but it was still hard to say how many were in there. There were eight people officially in the pack - six guys, two women - but the parties could vary in popularity. Sometimes they were lucky to get two other people to show up. Bobby was kind of hoping that was the case tonight.

He'd also been hoping the smell would fade, but it didn't. It was so solid a smell, he would have sworn he could reach out and grab a handful. Bobby stepped on something glass, something that snapped easily under foot, but it was a soft sound. He bent over to have a look, but it was just finely shattered glass. It did look to be in a vague vial shape. or maybe a tube. What the hell had this been? He expected a broken beer bottle or something. He looked around, in case it was part of a trap or something, but nope. Just a weird piece of litter in the overgrown grass.

Bobby looked around carefully, trying to spot if there was any more, but the grass was too rangy, and while his eyes had somewhat adjusted to the darkness, it still wasn't that great. Bobby was pretty sure he caught an extra whiff of that chemical smell. What the hell was it?

When he came within thirty feet of the house, he crouched down, and kept watch, looking for any hint of a trap. He only did it for five minutes, because any longer and his knees would give out. It looked clear. There was a party going on inside, and everyone seemed oblivious to the crashers about to come in through their door. He stood, hoping his knees didn't crack too loudly. They didn't.

Given his approach to the house, he figured he'd come in the back, and as it was, it was ideal. The back door was one of those sliding glass ones, and on top of that, it was already open, letting music, laughter, and that chemical smell spill out into the night.

Bobby opened it a bit wider, something which made no audible noise over the din, and stepped inside. It somehow smelled worse, with an added layer of cheap pizza and pot smoke to the miasma.

Bobby couldn't imagine that this place was ever great, but it probably looked better than right now, with broken furniture and holes in the wall, and stains on the carpet that ...

... was that blood?

It was a wet, black puddle, but blood could turn dark after a while. You'd think the wolves would have cleaned up a little after their carnage, if only to keep potential new victims from being tipped off, but apparently not. Maybe they reached that stage of drunkenness where they could only see about two feet in front of their face.

Bobby put his back against the wall, and tried to peek around the corner before entering the next room. He was nearly shocked into a heart attack when he found a man with a leering grin looking right at him. His pupils were blown so wide they made his eyes look solid black. "Oh look," he said. "Dinner's finally arrived."

Well, shit.

* * *

Dean wondered if this guy emptying his clip into the woods was his time to strike - autos burned bullets like flash paper, and he'd have to reload in no time - when he heard someone trying to shout over the noise. Finally, the shooting stopped, and he could hear the man, who was still kind of shouting. Maybe proximity to the gun left his ears ringing. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Trying to flush out prey," the other man said.

"And burning all your ammo?" Dean made an attempt to look through the blackberry vines at the other man, but he honestly couldn't see him. He was a vague shape behind the man mountain.

"I gotta ton of ammo."

Well, that was good to know. Fucking sucked, but good to know.

The other man sighed. "Well, you're still being a fucking idiot. Come in, we haven't finished searching the place."

"No need. You know as well as I do -"

"I didn't sign up to kill kids," the other man snapped. Okay, great - not only did they know they were here, they were already doing the mental compartmentalization that would allow them to murder children. There was no depth to which they wouldn't sink.

"Too bad."

"We don't ha-"

"They could recognize us, identify us to others. You know what happens then, right? We're dead. It's them or us."

"They're kids. Dead kids usually means police investigation. That's more heat we can't take."

"You're assuming they'll be found."

Dean felt a chill that went all the way to his bones. The man mountain had already decided he was killing them and getting rid of the evidence. Fantastic.

If Dean was any judge, it sounded like his "friend" was unsettled too. "Dude. There has to be some other way."

"You want out, Clay?"

A long silence followed, in which Dean tried again to get a look at the scene, but Clay was no longer visible even as a partial shape, and man mountain had turned around and was filling the doorway. "I'm not saying that ..."

"Then shut up," man mountain snapped, and went back inside, slamming the door behind him.

He and Sam got to their feet and moved quickly and as quietly as possible deeper into the woods. Not too deep, because getting lost out here wouldn't help them.

The woods were dark, and full of underbrush and low branches that threatened to trip or smack them, but their eyes had more or less adjusted, and they managed to get through. There was the occasional rustle, but Dean told himself it was either the wind or nocturnal animals slinking about. He wasn't going to get paranoid. Yet. Although did it count as paranoid when there actually were strangers trying to kill you?

Again, he focused, adding more knowledge to his arsenal. Clay, whoever he was, was a weak point on the team, but he dare not trust that. If it came to his life or going along with things, he'd go along. Man mountain was a well armed psychopath, and probably leader of the group, which didn't bode well at all. They didn't want witnesses, but why? He couldn't make the crime scene completely disappear, not with all those bullets he sprayed into the woods. So, psychopathic, but not a genius. Maybe that was something he could work with.

And Dean was not a kid - nineteen was adult, more or less. If he thought he could trust them, he'd negotiate his life for Sam's, but he'd be a fool to trust them. They were here only to kill everything sentient. And then what? What was the ultimate goal here? Did Hector and Cecilia piss off some monsters without knowing it? They wouldn't be the first hunters to do so.

They came to a stop near a towering pine that still had nicks in the bark, from when Hector had some steps nailed up so they could climb it. The "stairs" were gone, because they didn't need them anymore. Dean's stomach was still a big knot, and he didn't know if it was ever going away.

"What do we do?" Sam whispered, his voice barely audible even though he was within arm's reach. Even in the dimness, Dean could see he was white as a ghost, and his eyes were huge and slightly hollow. Honestly, he was doing a great job considering. They were well trained, and no strangers to horror. Sometimes you could make post traumatic stress disorder work for you.

"My first thought is we have to create a distraction that will pull them away from the cabin. Then we circle around, grab a car, and get the fuck out of here."

"How does that work?" Sam asked, showing he wasn't completely in shock. "We don't know how many of these things there are. We have no guarantee they won't leave someone behind to guard things."

Dean shrugged. "I can take one, if it comes to that."

"We don't know what they are. You don't know that."

"I do. I can take one down even temporarily, no matter what it is." Dean knew he couldn't be cocky, but Dad had trained him well, and besides, behind the knot in his stomach was a simmering ball of rage. They attacked Hector and Cecilia. He wanted to tear them to shreds with his bare hands.

Sam stared at him a moment, and Dean was actually glad to see a little defiance edge back into his expression. Sure, it was a total pain in the ass, but he might be able to use it. Everything had weapon potential, if you used it correctly. "What's plan B?"

"Still working on it," Dean lied. He did have one, he just wasn't ready to tell him yet.

Because if they couldn't escape? Dean was simply going to have to knuckle down, and figure out some way to kill them all first.


	5. Exits

_5 - Exits _

Dean was giving himself a mental pep talk, as Sam nudged him, and whispered, "The old swing."

The towering pine also used to have a makeshift swing tied to one of its branches, but it was gone now. Hector said a bear kind of mangled it, but it sounded like one of his made up stories, just to impress them. "Yeah, so what?"

"Still got your knife?"

Now Dean looked at Sam, who was pointing at the branch, and Dean saw it: part of the rope was still attached to it. As weapons went, it sucked - you had to get in close, and strangulation took a long time, and was honestly a horrible way to die. Not that he occasionally sat up nights, wondering how he was going to die, and ranked them on how painful they must have been. Nope. He absolutely never did that. "We could tie them up," Sam suggested, going the non-grisly route.

"One person, " Dean said, cutting it down. For an old, weather exposed rope, it was still remarkably strong. So, yeah, they could tie up one of them with it, but how much did that help them? Again, at baseline, they were dealing with four people, most likely more.

But thinning the herd wasn't a bad idea. The less number he had to deal with, the less he had to kill. At least in theory. But that meant luring one away, and that felt like another impossible job.

And that's when a man by the cabin - Clay? - shouted. "Hey, kids! We don't wanna hurt you! We just wanna talk!"

Dean clearly heard man mountain exclaim, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Thanks to your little stunt with the gun, they know we're here." Clay raised his voice, and reiterated, "We are not going to harm you, we promise! We just need to ask you a couple of questions!"

"How dumb do they think we are?" Sam whispered.

"Extremely. But we can use that too."

He could see Sam giving him a skeptical look. "What do you mean?"

Dean shook his head, and gestured for Sam to move further into the trees. Dean wrapped the rope around his shoulder and took it with them.

There were four people headed out into the woods, and Dean knew this because they were all carrying flashlights. This meant they probably couldn't get them with physical traps, or count on them hurting themselves in unfamiliar territory. But it also announced they were coming, giving Dean and Sam a bit of a head start.

While they were dumb, he didn't think they all went into the woods without someone guarding the cabin, so Dean upped the number of things here to five or six. Which sucked, but also argued for him to try and take them out one or, if extremely lucky, two at a time. But first things first. He and Sam were taking a sort of roundabout way back to the cabin, moving parallel to them and their flashlights.

Dad taught them well. They knew how to be as quiet as possible, and even keep their eyes averted from the flashlight beams to preserve their night vision. Dean had formulated a hasty plan. If he could get one of them separated, it would be a start. He could get their weapons, their keys, and maybe figure out what the hell they were. But somehow he had to do this quietly, or at least as quietly as possible. All he needed was a gunshot or a yell to bring the others running. So that left out shooting them, although pistol whipping was maybe on the table.

Grisly images flashed through his mind, one after the other. He could strangle one, or slit their throat - there'd be little to no noise there. But Sam was right here. Did he want to give him nightmares for the rest of his life, and the added weight of having a brother who was a cold blooded killer?

A couple of the flashlights headed to where they had been, deeper in the woods. Dean spotted a solo light, and figured now was the time to make his move. He gave Sam the rope, and whispered, "Stay here."

Sam grabbed his arm. "What? No."

"I need you to stay and be ready to save my ass if this all goes wrong." Which was kind of a lie, because, if this all went wrong, he'd probably be dead. But he knew if he said that, Sam would insist on coming with him.

Dean moved towards the light, but took a moment to confirm that there was no one else tagging along with him, without a flashlight. It would have been smart, but these guys weren't exactly geniuses, which was a great break for them. He stayed hidden, but hissed, a noise to draw his attention.

Sadly, he was one of the monsters that could pass as human. He looked like a regular guy - doughy in the midsection, wiry in the arms, wearing jeans and a button down. Dean would have pegged him as a harmless civilian in any other circumstance. He could feel anxiety rising, but Dean tamped it down, remembering the words of his Dad: he had to take this guy down, because there wasn't a plan B. Do or die. He had no choice.

In his mind, he could hear his Dad telling him, _"Don't think, don't hesitate. Just act."_

The guy moved closer to where Dean was, but by the way he was squinting and looking around, he had no idea where his position was. "Who's there?" He asked it in the same whispering tone, which was what Dean had been hoping. If he kept his tone quiet and low, the guy would probably mimic him. Until it was too late.

"Were you serious about not hurting us?"

The guys' posture relaxed slightly, which Dean took as a good sign. He was letting his guard down already, assuming he was some scared kid. Absolutely not understanding cornered animals were the most dangerous. "Yeah, of course. This is a huge misunderstanding." He was lying, but doing it well. Which meant he had some experience tricking humans. Great. Now Dean felt less guilty about what he was about to do to him.

He slowly stood, raising his hands to show he was unarmed, and while Dean tried to look nowhere near the guy's flashlight, he caught enough of it that he saw afterimages of light and dark for a moment. The guy made sure Dean was still and not doing anything before looking around. "Where's y-"

He didn't finish the question. Dean surged forward, and rabbit punched him right in the throat.

The man dropped his flashlight and grabbed his throat, wheezing and choking. If Dean hit him too hard, he would have crushed his larynx and killed him, so he pulled the punch a little. But there was no getting around the fact that a throat punch was often debilitating no matter how much weight you put into it, because reminding people they had a windpipe just hanging out there, vulnerable and unprotected by anything, was startling. And getting deprived of air, even for a few seconds, made all bodies panic. It was an autonomic response.

He stumbled back, still holding his throat, and Dean stomped down on his knee. He didn't hear a crack of bone, he heard a much milder _pop_, which sent the man falling to the earth and trying to scream, but still only wheezing and dripping saliva from his lips. Dean had dislocated his knee rather than broke it, but good enough. He wasn't standing up without assistance and heavy drugs anytime soon. Well, if he was human.

If he wasn't human, it might be debilitating for a much shorter time frame, or hardly any at all. He had to move fast. Dean kicked him in the face, like he was going for a field goal. The man snapped back so violently he didn't fall to the dirt more than he plummeted. At least Dean knew for sure he was out cold. For the moment.

Dean quickly searched him, and found two guns, both newish semi-automatic handguns, fully loaded, with extra ammo clips in his pocket. Dean took the guns, and a knife he found he threw deep into the woods.

"You're looting now?" Sam asked, making Dean jump. He hadn't heard him at all. Which was good, because it meant he was sticking to his training.

Dean held out one of the guns he'd just retrieved from the man, and Sam took it, his lips twisting in disgust. "Disarming him. And looking for clues."

"You still don't know what he is?"

"No. Do you?"

When Sam didn't say anything, Dean looked back at him, but Sam only shook his head. This was not going as Dean had hoped. He had hoped the first battle would reveal the nature of the enemy. What did he do now?

As it was, he dragged the guy's body to the nearest tree, and Sam tied him to it. Dean made sure the rope went into his open mouth and looped around, so it would be a gag as well as a restraint. Sure the rope was tight, he picked up the flashlight and tucked it in his jacket. It was a cheap plastic job, no good for clubbing, but bright light deployed at the right time could be a weapon in itself.

After they were done, they made their way back towards the cabin, eyes open for any other people going solo on their search. What struck him as really weird was the guy had no wallet on him. No cash, no ID of any kind. Why? Did he leave it in the car? For what reason? Dean felt like he was uncovering more questions than finding answers, and that added to his general frustration.

They took cover behind some trees, with a view to the front of the cabin. There was movement, but it was so dark it was impossible to tell if it was one person or two. They didn't have flashlights, which meant they had preserved their night vision. Damn it.

Once they were settled, Sam whispered, "You okay?"

Dean nodded. "Fine. He never got a chance to retaliate."

Sam was quiet for several seconds, allowing Dean to hear the guys still searching the woods, who apparently weren't concerned about being stealthy. The guys in front of the cabin were being as quiet as you please. "What kind of monsters use guns?" Sam finally asked.

It was a good question, one that had been bugging Dean for some time. The only answer he could come up with was humans, and he didn't like that one bit.

* * *

Bobby pulled the trigger, but the werewolf was too fast, and yanked the rifle out of his hand, throwing it into a table, where he heard glass break. He threw a punch almost simultaneously, but Bobby saw that coming and ducked out of the way. The man ended up hitting the wall and putting a hole in it, which seemed absurd. Either this house was cheaply made, or some of the werewolf strength was coming out. But how? They were nowhere near a full moon.

The man lunged for him, and Bobby pulled one of the airplane booze bottles out of his pocket, and smashed it in his face. The effect was immediate. He roared and reeled back, his skin sizzling, the silver mixture burning him so sharply Bobby could smell it. It looked like part of his face was melting. Disgusting, but clearly it worked.

Bobby pulled out his silver bullet loaded handgun, and shot the man in the heart as he charged him again. He figured what little element of surprise they had was over, a sentiment echoed through screams and sounds of gunfire in other parts of the house.

What bothered Bobby was the fact that this one had some of his wolfness coming out. How? Was it related to this horrible chemical smell? It must have been. There's no way it was a coincidence. What the hell was it?

He wanted to look around, but that was for later, as he heard fighting noises deeper in the house, and went towards them. Or at least he tried.

Bobby passed by a messy room, and was caught unaware when a woman who must have been lurking in the shadows of it suddenly leaped on his back with a yell, attempting to put him in a chokehold. She also snapped at his ear like she was trying to bite him.

He swung around and managed to throw her off his back, and he felt a twinge in his gut when he realized she couldn't have been more than twenty two, or maybe a really hard seventeen. Too young to be here either way.

She too had the blown out pupils that looked like they swallowed the rest of her eyes. He'd see demon eyes, but this wasn't that - the whites were still visible, for one. But whatever the chemical they'd been exposed to, it was making them freak the hell out.

With an animalistic snarl, she jumped back up to her feet and dove for him, baring her teeth and holding out her hands like she had claws, and Bobby shot her in the heart as well. Her blood splattered the back wall as she fell face down on the carpet, and he couldn't help but feel bad for her, even though she was theoretically trying to attack him. What the hell was going on in this house?

Bobby was wondering if he missed something on his stake out when something exploded, and sent him flying down the hall in a hail of debris.

It was like he'd been punched by a giant. All the air rushed out of his lungs even before he hit the carpet, and then the pain was sharp on impact, even before detritus rained down on him from above.

If this was the roof collapsing, they were well and truly fucked.


	6. Interrupted

_6 - Interrupted_

The waiting was making Dean's skin itch. Like, right between his shoulder blades, a spot all the more annoying for being extremely hard to reach. The rest of the guys were deep in the woods, so if he was going to make a move for the cars, he had to do it now.

"Okay, I'm gonna go for it," Dean said. "Stay here."

Like he was afraid of, Sam grabbed his arm. "What the hell are you doing? Getting yourself killed doesn't help."

"I'm not getting killed. Look, they have guys out there, right? I'm one of the guys, coming in to check on things. I'll keep the flashlight aimed up at their face, so they can't get a good look at me. Then I'll take them out."

Sam stared at him in a manner that Dean found a little insulting. "Maybe that works in a TV show. That won't work here and now."

"No, I can do it."

Sometimes Sam got this inordinately stern look on his face that reminded him uncannily of Dad. He was wearing that expression now. "You'll get shot in the face."

Dean rolled his eyes before figuring out a way to get Sam to play along with this. "Dude, do you trust me?"

"To be an idiot? Yeah ..."

"I'm serious, Sam. Do you trust me?"

He sighed, and rolled his eyes, but finally he said, "You know I do."

"Then trust I can handle this."

Sam gave him his famous pissy look, but had no way to come back that wouldn't look petty, so he had to live with it. Before he left, Dean tousled Sam's hair, which he knew he hated, so he'd be more pissed off than worried about him.

Dean kept telling himself in his mind that he belonged here, and was just one of the guys returning from the woods. Faking it until he made it. Having heard the voice of the guy he knocked out, Dean was pretty sure he couldn't replicate it, but a grunt of acknowledgement covered a lot of bases. He had the flashlight on, and aimed it towards the guy out front.

From what he could see, he was a little taller and in better shape than the guy he got in the woods, which kind of figured. And it wasn't that he didn't know that Sam was right - this was stupid, impulsive, and asking for trouble. But it was also their best - and possibly only - chance to get a car and get out of here. If he had to take a beating to get it done, he was willing to do it. "Get that light out of my fucking face," the man snapped, trying to shade his eyes with his hand. Dean made sure that was pointless by shifting the light ever so slightly, but still straight in his eyes. "That you, Jake?"

Dean went with the monosyllabic grunt. Was the guy in the woods named Jake? He didn't look like it. But then again, did he look like a Dean? What did a Dean look like exactly? Wow, that was a puzzler.

"You're supposed to be out back," the guy continued, as Dean walked ever closer to him. There were two strange cars here, a huge, fairly new truck, someone's pride and joy, and an older, clearly road worn sedan. So they came in two cars? He wondered anew how many guys there actually were.

Dean was genuinely surprised at how close he got. He started to see dark shapes on the ground, shapes in the form of bodies, but he kept his flashlight stable, not willing to see who was Hector, who was Cecilia, and who was the motherfucker they managed to kill, because he could feel trouble brewing within him. The tears he blinked away before they could start, but the rage was blooming, right beneath his breastbone, and it wasn't going away. Dad always told him to keep emotions out of it, because emotions could make you sloppy and get you dead faster than anything else, but he was gripping the flashlight so tight he was starting to break the casing. He swallowed as much rage as he could, but his awareness of their bodies still on the ground had made his belly full of it. It needed out. He needed to force feed this asshole the flashlight, straight through his skull.

Dean got to the cars by the time the man out front asked, "Who are you?" Dean didn't answer, but threw the flashlight as the man went for his gun, and quickly slid behind the gigantic truck, which, while undoubtedly compensating for some man's small penis, also made excellent cover.

He hunkered down, both waiting for the man and for his night vision to return, when the wind shifted, and he realized he could smell the meaty, metallic, shit soaked reek of blood and death, a smell you couldn't forget no matter how hard you tried. And the thought that two of those dead were Hector and Cecilia ...

It was almost like Dean's brain short circuited. He couldn't think anymore. He felt a pressure in his head, in his chest, and would swear he could see blood coursing through his own veins in the corners of his eyes. He was so fucking tired of everything he loved dying.

He heard the man approach. For whatever reason, he hadn't shot yet, but Dean knew instinctively he had his gun out, and judging from how he was reaching when Dean abandoned the ruse, he was right handed. All he needed to know.

As he started peering around the truck, Dean jumped to his feet, and punched him square in the face, putting all his weight behind it. He felt the man's nose shatter under his knuckles, and it felt good, but not nearly good enough. Somehow surprised by this direct attack, and having his nose broken, he stumbled back, and Dean grabbed his gun hand and twisted savagely, until his wrist snapped like kindling and his gun dropped. The man made a sort of gagging noise, like it was hard to scream with a throat full of blood, and Dean drove his knee right into his balls. He thought he was hurting before? Dean had a million ways to make him hurt, each one worse than the last.

That sent him falling to the dirt, making wet noises of pain, and Dean stamped hard on his ribs, listening for the crack. And he was so caught up in beating this motherfucking monster to death he didn't even notice the man sneaking up behind him until it was almost too late.

Some animal sense of Dean's, that itch between his shoulder blades, told him someone was way too close, and he turned just in time to avoid a full powered punch to the head. It still grazed him, though, and was strong enough to send Dean reeling.

He managed to keep to his feet, and exaggerated his stumble just to put some distance between him and the new guy. The new asshole was about the same height as the first, but broader across the shoulders, and just from the way he carried himself, Dean knew he was both stronger and more of a professional fighter than the other two men he'd encountered so far. Which sucked, but honestly? Dean didn't care. The guy could feed him his teeth one by one as long as he won in the end.

The man threw another punch at Dean's head, and he dodged it, aiming a kick at the side of his knee. The man saw that coming and jumped back, but Dean took that off balance moment to rush him and punch him in the solar plexus as hard as he could. He missed - a direct solar plexus hit could be a tricky thing, especially in the dark with a moving opponent - but he hit him hard enough in the stomach that Dean heard the man's breath leave him in an audible _oof_. But that didn't stop him from throwing a retaliatory punch that caught him flush in the side of the face.

Dean stumbled again, tasting blood, not sure if it was from his split lip or a loose tooth, and not caring either way. The taste of blood made him angrier. They exchanged a couple of shaggy blows, roundhouse rights that both hit, but Dean made his third punch an uppercut that the man had to jump back to avoid, opening some space between them for a second.

The man threw an underhand punch towards his gut, which struck Dean as strange, but he wasn't sure why until he deflected the blow, and felt metal bite into his arm. The man had a knife.

Dean stepped towards him, a counterintuitive move to be sure, but it allowed him to grab the man's arm, and deliver a sharp elbow blow to his throat. As he reeled back, Dean went with him, driving a sharp knee into his thigh, and twisting his knife arm until he dropped the weapon. The man headbutt Dean, which partially missed, but he took enough of it on the forehead that his consciousness spun, and he let him go as he staggered backwards, almost tripping on something.

Dean didn't dare look, but he knew, with a certainty that turned his stomach to ice, it was a body. It might even be Hector or Cecilia.

His vision seemed to tunnel down into a point, with his current opponent at the end of the barrel. He wanted him to join them.

Dean braced to rush him, to go for the punch that would shatter his larynx like the previous guard's nose and kill him for good, when the man drew a gun. "Hold it right there, you fucking freak," he snapped, spitting blood on the ground between them. "What the fuck's the matter with you? You on steroids or somethin'? How the fuck are you a kid? Are you possessed?"

"Shoot me," Dean said.

The man canted his head ever so slightly. He was bleeding from his mouth, his nose, and a cut above his eyebrow that was running like a creek. He was never handsome, and this fight guaranteed he never would be. "What?"

"Kill me or I kill you." It wasn't a threat; it was a statement of fact.

The man got this look on his face that was part confusion, and part amusement. His bloody lips twitched upward in a smirk. "You crazy? Is this a crazy defense? 'Cause you don't have a hope in Hell kiddo and you know it. Cooperate and -"

Dean didn't let him finish the sentence. He rushed him in a tackle, grabbing his gun arm, and the man, somewhat ready for it, leveled a punch in Dean's stomach. It forced air out his lungs, and threatened to send up the contents of his stomach as well before the man kicked him back to regain room.

"Fucking hell, you _are _possessed. Or you're rabid. You really want me to shoot your kneecap off? 'Cause try that again and I will."

Once he was sure he wasn't going to vomit, Dean spit out a mouthful of blood, and wiped some off his chin, watching the man and waiting for his next opening. The man stared back at him with dead set eyes, and his smirk slowly wilted as he came to a realization. "Holy shit, you mean it, don't you kid? You wanna murder me. Well, we don't really need you in one piece, just capable of talking."

He took a step forward, gun first, but then paused and looked down as if startled. Dean took his opportunity then, launching himself towards him, and putting every ounce of strength he had in an uppercut that caught the man flush under his chin. His head snapped back so violently it was a wonder it stayed attached to his body. He crumpled to the ground like a deflated balloon, finally unconscious. Only then did Dean look down to see what had made him pause.

It was a hand on his ankle. Cecilia's hand.

She was on the ground in what was technically their driveway, in a massive puddle of blood. She'd been shot several times, but Dean could see her eyes glistening in the dark. She was still alive.

He instantly dropped to his knees beside her, his jeans soaking up her blood, and he tried to visually gauge which injury was the worst one so he could try and stop the bleeding. It was really hard to tell; they all looked equally bad. It also felt like a weight lifted off his shoulders, if only for a moment. She grabbed his arm, her hand wet with her still warm blood. "Sam ..?"

"In the woods, waiting for me," he assured her. "I'm gonna get you in the car, okay? This is gonna hurt, sorry."

"Wait, no. They took the distributor caps."

This had felt like a victory, but now, his stomach turned back to cement. "From your car?"

"From all of them, even their own. They didn't want you getting away."

Okay, yeah, they were fucked. He could hot wire a car if he had to, break a locking mechanism, but come up with an impromptu replacement for a distributor cap? Nope. "Why? What do they want?"

It sounded like breathing was a struggle for her. Dean helped her sit up, although it caused her pain simply to do that, and it hurt his heart. He could feel that rage still simmering, making his own blood feel unbearably hot. "The Star of Anqara."

Oh, of course. He hadn't thought its arrival and the attack were simply a coincidence.

Cecilia attempted to wipe some of the blood off her face, but just smeared it around. "If they find it -"

"I have it." He reached into his pocket, and pulled out enough of the bag so she could see it before tucking it back in.

She exhaled, and touched his face. He leaned into it, in spite of the blood. "Oh honey, I'm glad you're so clever, but they'll kill you if they know."

"Not if I kill them first."

She dropped her hand to his arm, and squeezed it. "No. You survive to get out of here. And if I survive, I'm gonna have a talk with your Dad about what he's been teaching you, because I really thought you were going to kill that man."

He almost admitted that he was, but didn't, because she didn't need that right now.

"Now you need to go, okay? Head northwest, towards the river. If you follow it for a couple miles, there's a ranger station. It's your safest bet."

Dean shook his head. "I'm not leaving you here."

"Yes, you are. I'm dying. Leave me to it."

"No. You come with us or we're not leaving," he insisted. It was bad enough they lost Hector. He wasn't going to let Cecilia die if he could at all stop it.

She sighed. "Don't be like this. I'm a liability."

"I'm not losing you too. Can you stand, or should I carry you?"

She rolled her eyes, just like she did when he attempted to hustle her at pool. Cecilia never fell for any of his tricks. It was one of the reasons he liked her so much.

But she put her arm around his shoulders, and he held on to it as he stood carefully, trying as gently as possible to pull her up to her feet. She managed, swallowing a pained groan that Dean still caught. He snaked his other arm around her waist, ignoring the hot blood that was still soaking through her shirt, and she leaned most of her weight against him, barely able to stay vertical. But that was okay. He meant it when he said he'd carry her if he had to. He wasn't leaving her behind.

But the men who shot her? They'd be lucky to see sunrise. That was a quiet vow Dean made to himself, as he helped Cecilia towards the shadowy woods.


	7. Ripe For Anarchy

_7 - Ripe For Anarchy_

Sam had expected Dean to come back bloody, if he came back at all. But he hadn't expected him to come back with even bloodier Cecilia in tow.

It felt like his heart had jumped up into his throat. She was alive? Holy shit, why hadn't they checked? There were simply so many gunshots, it seemed unlikely. But who should know better than them that unlikely shit happened all the time? They should have checked sooner.

But it was beside the point now. He went out and helped Dean and Cecilia cover the last dozen or so feet, and Sam was somewhat amazed at the sheer amount of blood between the two. Dean had a split lip and a bloody mouth, and it looked like both his right eye and cheekbone were starting to swell, but he seemed remarkably okay considering he must have taken a beating. But if suffering in silence didn't define Dean, Sam wasn't sure what did.

Cecilia was just bad. How she was still alive was a testament to the human will to survive. He guessed she took at least four bullets, mostly center mass, which was where you generally shot if you wanted to kill someone. She had one in the upper right of her chest - how was that non-lethal? - one to the abdomen, another near her left shoulder, and another at the top of her right thigh. Her clothes seemed to be red and black, which they hadn't been before she was shot.

She made a noise of pain as they lowered her to the ground, but Sam imagined if he was in the same position, you could have heard him screaming from three counties over. One bullet wound sounded painful; four seemed unimaginable.

Sam quickly started to assess what, if anything they had, could be used for first aid, but nope, they were out in the woods with nothing. But they had to do something to try and close some of these wounds, or she was going to bleed to death while they watched.

He could feel himself wanting to slide to panic, but Sam didn't let himself do it. They had to have something.

It took him a minute, but he finally figured it out. Cauterization. Dean's knife was substantial, so if they heated the blade, it should do the job handily. But to get it as hot as they needed, they'd need to build a fire, which they didn't have time for, and would be seen anyway, bringing this whole thing to an end.

While discussing this with Dean, it was Cecilia herself who had the answer. She suggested they open a couple of bullets, and pour the black powder in them on the wounds, then light that. It would be enough to cauterize the wounds. And she knew this because her Uncle Rodrigo taught her this, and that was why she had that nasty scar on her leg.

Sam didn't want to imagine how painful that would be, because he was still fixating on how painful being shot four times must have been. But she was remarkably calm and lucid, and Dean instantly pulled out some bullets and began using his knife to pry them apart. He found a scrap of paper in his pocket - a phone number? Knowing Dean, yes - and he poured out the powder onto it.

Cecelia thought they should cauterize the wound in her leg, and the one in her chest, because they were bleeding the most, and she didn't think she could stand more than two of these treatments. When Dean lit them, there would be a brief flair of light, so he and Cecilia figured where it would be best for him to stand, and hopefully block the light with his body. As it was, Cecilia thought they should move after this was done, mainly because, as it turned out, she and Hector had secret weapons caches hidden in the woods as well. Hiding things was their thing. Dean was happy to hear it, but Sam wondered why. They had weapons, and they weren't doing them any good at all. Did they really want to get in a fire fight with these assholes? How would that help?

Sam held Cecelia's hand as Dean, following instructions, put the black powder over the wounds, and stood where Cecelia instructed him, and waited for her nod before he lit them. The black powder went up in a bright burst and hiss, and the smell of singed flesh was immediate and terrible. Cecelia squeezed Sam's hand so hard it felt like she might have broken a bone, but he didn't care, because it must have been the slightest sliver of the pain she was in. When Dean lit the second one, Sam was pretty sure Cecilia passed out for a second, her hand went limp, but before he could get truly alarmed, she was conscious again. Now she had third degree burns to add to her trouble, but it did look like it had worked, as she didn't appear to be bleeding much from those wounds. Maybe she wouldn't bleed to death in the next twenty minutes, but she still needed a hospital as soon as humanly possible. Sam really didn't know how she wasn't dead of shock by now.

Cecelia wanted to move on immediately, but Sam and Dean pretty much ganged up on her and told her no, they were resting for a minute. She needed it, whether she wanted to admit it or not. And on that note, Dean gave her his flask, because she needed the fluids, even if it was his smuggled rotgut.

She took the flask, but scowled. "Dean, do we hafta have another talk later?"

He shook his head, and looked genuinely tired. "Without it I'd never sleep."

Wow. Sometimes, when Dean told the truth, it just knocked you sideways. Even Cecelia didn't seem to know what to say to that. So she swigged it down, and handed it back to him, saying, "You at least deserve better quality stuff."

Dean shrugged, and put the flask back in his pocket.

"What are we dealing with?" Sam asked. He still hadn't been able to figure it out.

"You don't know?" she replied, looking between them. They both shook their heads. "Hunters."

Sam felt slightly sick, but Dean looked furious. "What the fuck ..? Hunters?"

Cecelia nodded, and counted them off on her fingers. "Anson Matarazzo, Clay Croshaw, Will Brownlee, Michael Ahlfors, Louie Rutter, Jake Geary, Eddie Whitehouse, and Woody Bernauer."

Eight of them? Holy shit. They were more outnumbered than Sam had thought.

"They're friends of yours?" Dean asked, still looking furious. Somehow, with a bruised and bloody face, Dean's anger seemed way more dangerous.

Cecelia shook her head. "Acquaintances at best. Hector knew Woody from the service, I think, but I didn't think any of them knew where we lived. And I always thought Mike was a fucking psychopath. He was one of those guys who became a hunter only because it allowed him to hurt things without being arrested. A real piece of shit."

"Is he tall, built like a brick shithouse?" Dean asked.

She raised an eyebrow at that. "Yes, shithouse being the operative word."

"Okay, that's man mountain. Good to have a name to put on the tombstone."

She smirked. "Man mountain? Yeah, that's apt. I think he does steroids, and that's the reason for his charming personality."

"They know the hunter's code, and they still came here to kill you two?" Dean asked. The "hunter's code" simply being the generally accepted principal that no hunter hurt another hunter, or they paid for it. That varied from mass shunning, your name being dirt, or a possible death sentence, all depending on how you broke the code. Sam found it hard to believe this wouldn't be death, especially considering how well liked Hector and Cecelia were.

She made a sort of breathless laugh, and Sam realized he'd never seen her looking so pale. But blood loss could do that to a person. "I think that was plan B. Plan A was to cut us in on their two million dollar deal."

He and Dean shared a look, confirming they'd both never heard of a person in real life having that much money. "They wanted to sell the Star of Anqara?" Sam guessed.

She nodded. "They found a buyer, supposedly a collector of "rare occult objects". They offered to cut us in if we handed it over. How the hell they knew we had it I have no idea, as we didn't tell anyone about it. And we let them know they could take their offer and fuck off, because it's dangerous and shouldn't be out in the world. And that's when Mike opened fire."

God. Just when he thought the world was a terrible place, something came along to make him wonder where the bottom of this pit was. Why fight monsters when humans were more than happy to be worse than them? "Who's the dead guy?" Dean asked. Sam stared at him, because he had no idea what he was talking about.

"Woody," Cecelia said, contempt dripping from the syllables. "I was aiming for Mike, but I had a better shot at Woody, the fucking traitor."

"Where'd you get him?" Dean asked. Talk about a morbid question.

"Straight through the heart."

"Awesome." Sam frowned at him, but Dean was looking away, back towards the cabin, which they couldn't actually see anymore since they retreated farther into the trees. "What say we Last House on The Left this?"

"What?" Sam replied. He knew it was a movie, but he'd never seen it, and it sounded like Dean was saying gibberish, perhaps due to his head injury.

"Okay, first of all, no," Cecelia said, glancing at Sam. "You're too young for that movie, and hell, Dean, you're probably too young to have seen that movie."

"I'm nineteen."

"I don't care. Did you see it last week? No. So you were probably too young to have seen that film when you saw it. It's not even that good." She sighed, and attempted to wipe some more blood and tears off her face. It was debatable whether she succeeded or not. "And what the hell do you mean? Just spell it out, Dean."

"We hunt them."

"Why not say Most Dangerous Game them?" Sam asked. Dean frowned at him for that.

Cecelia put a hand on Dean's arm, which was a power move if she knew he had kind of a crush on her, which she undoubtedly did. "I want you to get the idea of killing anyone out of your head. Now."

"But -"

"Now," she insisted. "I know what I did, and as far as I'm concerned, I had every right to do that. But I'm a grown ass woman and I can live with my terrible choices. You are too young to take on something this heavy. I don't care what your father thinks - you shouldn't bear this weight. So you're not gonna on my watch. Comprende?"

Dean looked down, as he couldn't meet her eyes. "I got it."

"Good. Now, having said that, I think going on the offense is probably our best bet." At their surprised looks, she quickly added, "We don't have to kill them. I think Dean has shown us that incapacitation works just as well. So that's what we'll aim to do. We incapacitate them one by one, or in a group if necessary, and then, when we can access the house, I'll call Sheriff McCrae down in North Ridge."

"Of_ the_ McCrae's?" Sam asked. The McCrae's were a famous hunter family, supposedly stretching back to medieval Scotland. It was weird to think there were hunters back then, but there must have been. As long as monsters had been around, there were people fighting them.

Cecelia nodded. "And Melanie's not a fan of any hunter who strays past the rules. She'll know what do with these bastards."

"What if they cut the land line?" Sam asked.

She shrugged her unshot shoulder. "We have a satellite phone in the cellar."

"You do?" Sam tried to recall if he'd ever seen anything down there that looked like a satellite phone. He didn't think so. But they really did like hiding stuff.

"How many of them are left?" Dean wondered. "I mean, we got the guy in the woods ..."

"Got him?" Cecelia asked.

"Dean knocked him out, and we tied him to a tree." Sam explained.

She smiled very faintly. "See? Incapacitation works well. And it's safe to assume the guys Dean beat the shit out of won't be waking up until next year, so ... only four left."

Sam actually felt relieved. That number didn't seem insurmountable, even if they did have automatic weapons.

"How are you with crossbows?" Cecelia asked, seemingly apropos of nothing.

"Good," Dean said.

"Working on it," Sam admitted.

"He's getting there," Dean said.

"Okay. Well, I know we have a couple of compact compound bows in the nearest cache. If you want a silent sniping weapon, it's hard to do better."

Dean nodded in agreement, and helped Cecilia stand. Sam kind of admired the fact that she could actually get to her feet after all of this. So they were really doing this? She was still injured, and by all rights should not be moving, and she wanted to fight these guys?

Everything felt so surreal right now, Sam could have easily believed he was still asleep, having one of his weird vivid nightmares.

If it was, it was the worst one yet. And he was showing no signs of waking up any time soon.

* * *

It was when Clay found both Will and Eddie in separate but similar pools of blood that he began to wonder why everything had gone so wrong.

No one was supposed to die, or get hurt. Their inside man was going to drop the Star of Anqara in a lot that no one would give a shit about, and then they'd walk away with a massive payday, more money than any of them had ever seen in their lives. It should have been simple.

Except their inside man gave them the wrong lot number. Tracing it back, they discovered that Hector had bought the lot they were after, and that was the moment that they descended into hell.

Why didn't he want the money? The Star of Anqara really wasn't all that dangerous. It killed its user, right? The problem took care of itself. and if other idiots picked it up and suffered the same fate, who really cared? The world was barreling towards an apocalypse, right? So might as well go off for a few years and enjoy life before it all burned.

But then Mike opened fire, and Cecelia clearly yelled an alarm to ... someone. Which was weird, because they had no kids. So the mystery of who was in the house continued. They judged, from the bags and the t-shirts, that maybe they were dealing with teenagers? Which didn't clarify who they were. But they were smart enough to maybe take the Star of Anqara with them, which was bad moving on to worse.

Mike was still frighteningly unstable. Jake had yet to come back from the woods, and now Clay found Will and Eddie swimming in pools of their own blood. What the fuck was happening?

He got Anson to help him drag Eddie and Will inside the cabin, where Eddie was conscious but in a lot of pain. He had a broken nose, complained about broken ribs, and had a concussion. Will was still unconscious, but looked no better. By the time Mike had joined them, Eddie was laying on his side on the couch, a frozen bag of corn upon his head as an ice pack. He couldn't sit up without vomiting, thanks to the concussion, so he was staying down. "There's no fucking way a kid did this," Clay said.

"I'm telling you, he looked barely old enough to shave," Eddie insisted. "And dead in the eyes. A complete psycho. He didn't even say anything, he just attacked."

Something nagged at the back of Clay's mind, but he wasn't sure what it was at first. Something he'd heard, something related to a friend of Hector's. Clay wandered back to the kitchen, as Mike said, "Any grown man who gets his ass beat by a teenager deserves it."

"He musta been possessed or something," Eddie insisted. "He had fists like rocks."

"There's been no demon signs around here."

"I don't care. He wasn't human."

Mike and Eddie argued, although Mike sounded like he really didn't give a shit, and Clay found what had bugged him. A scrap of paper beneath an apple shaped magnet on the fridge. It had a telephone number on it, and a name - _John W_. Oh no. Their luck couldn't be that bad, could it?

Clay came back out to the living room, where Eddie and Mike were arguing. He could hear noises deeper in the house, where Louie and Anson were continuing to ransack the place, looking for the Star. Clay was pretty sure that empty warded box in the basement used to be its home, but everybody wanted to make sure. "What does everyone know about John Winchester?" Clay asked.

Mike snorted. "Crazy John? He thinks a demon conspiracy is trying to eat his family, or some such shit."

"Yeah, the cheese fell off that guy's cracker a while ago," Eddie agreed.

Clay didn't disagree. Nothing he'd ever heard about the guy suggested he had a stranglehold on reality, which also made him more dangerous than your typical hunter. And so did something else. "And what have you heard about his kids?"

Mike looked at him, genuinely puzzled, and crossed his arms over his chest. His pecs bulged out like he was trying to smuggle rocks through customs. Eddie lifted a corner of his ice bag and squinted at him. His left eye was almost completely swollen shut, and his nose was about twice as big as it had been at the start of the night. He needed a hospital, as did Will, but Clay didn't really see that in the cards. "What? What about his kids?"

"Scuttlebutt has it he trained his oldest boy to be an attack dog. John Winchester's little hammer."

"He probably spreads shit like that so no one messes with his kids," Mike said.

Clay shook his head. "I've heard it from monsters. I've also heard they've survived a couple different demon attacks."

"Bullshit," Mike insisted. "No kid is gonna survive a demon attack."

"It explains everything. The kids we're looking for are John Winchester's kids. And Will and Eddie - and maybe Jake - got bit by the attack dog." And if they were a hunter's kids, even one as crazy as Winchester, they'd probably know about the Star and take it with them. Yeah, them being the Winchester kids explained a lot, and threw another complication into the works. They weren't only going to have to kill a couple of kids, but hunter kids. It was hard to imagine that crazy John wouldn't hound them to the ends of the earth. Still, it wasn't like they could back out now. Too many people had already died, and they were dead if they didn't get the Star and the money to get the fuck out of dodge before the shit hit the fan.

Mike snorted. "Attack dog? He's a fucking kid. So what if his old man taught him to fight? Kids are really easy to kill."

Clay looked at him, trying to read his blank, meaty face. Was Mike saying he'd killed kids before?

"His old man didn't teach him to fight," Eddie said, shifting his ice pack. "He taught him to destroy. Is he putting him in the underground fighting circuit or something?"

Clay shook his head and rubbed his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on. This had been a clusterfuck from the word go. He was sorry he ever heard of the Star of Anqara. "We can't afford to pussyfoot around anymore. We hafta do a full frontal assault. They're not kids, they're combatants, and we need to treat them as such."

"Finally," Mike said, letting his arms fall to his side. "I'll go get my AK-47."

"Give me some painkillers, I'll be good to go," Eddie said.

Clay was almost flabbergasted. "Are you going to projectile vomit on them? You can't move without dry heaving!"

"That's why I need painkillers," Eddie replied, as if that made any sense at all.

Clay was wondering if he should just set the whole fucking cabin on fire when the lights went out.


	8. Oblivion Lullabies

_8 - Oblivion Lullabies_

John expected a lot from werewolves. Gross smells, gross kills, and just your everyday, general grossness, although it was a stereotype that werewolves were that way. After all, the last werewolf he put down turned out to be a judge, in one of the weirdest cases he'd come across that wasn't somehow demon related. Werewolves could be ordinary people, or powerful people. It just happened, this time, they were a bunch of lowlife scumbuckets.

But that smell was new. Somehow he'd take week old wolf funk over it any day. How could they stand it? They had heightened senses. You'd think this would be driving them away.

His assignment was to come at the front, from a slightly oblique angle, and a few seconds after everyone else, when others would have drawn attention away from it. From the sounds of shouting and gunshots inside, that had indeed happened.

As he was approaching, gun raised, he noticed the garage door wasn't completely shut. It had stopped maybe a half inch off the ground? He couldn't see why, but it made him really curious. And if he was right about the design of this house, it was a straight shot inside the kitchen from the garage, so a great entry point.

John went over, and used the toe of his boot on the garage door, to see what would happen. Nothing did, except he realized the door must have been broken, because it felt like he could open it. So that's what he did. He shoved it up, and it retracted easily, although with a noise suggesting there was a broken chain in the mechanism. And what he saw took him a moment to process.

There was no car inside, just some shelves, and a huge black mark on the floor that looked roughly like a charred circle. Although there was a chemical stench here, mostly what he was picking up was the scent of burned blood and metal ... and a hint of sulfur? Maybe. The more he looked around, at the charred walls and debris scattered around the floor, what he thought at first was a summoning circle was actually ... a ritual circle? Had the wolves been trying to cast a spell? Why?

Of course, they wouldn't be the first supernatural creatures to dabble in something else. But it was weird, especially when you considered they were a former biker gang on a killing and debauchery spree. He went over to a pile of clothes in the corner, and kicked them over. He found a charred part of a book, still gripped in someone's hand. Which is when he realized that the pile of clothes was actually remnants of a person.

John was so glad he was alone, so no one saw him jumped back a step, like an arachnaphobe startled by a scuttling thing in the dark. But it hadn't occurred to him it might be the remains of a person.

He crouched down, and tried to have a look at what the hand was grasping without touching it. It looked reasonably old, although that may have been a side effect of the explosion, or whatever took place here. It wasn't in a language he was super familiar with, but he could make out some of it. It was something to do with alchemy.

Unable to avoid it any longer, he stepped on what was left of the wrist, and pulled the fragment from the hand. Maybe he couldn't get it, but Bobby probably could. He wouldn't still be acquainted with the old crank if he wasn't so smart and good at his job.

John shoved the piece of paper in his coat pocket before coming in through the kitchen door, just in time for a loud explosion. Instinctively he ducked behind a counter, and some debris salted down from the ceiling, but the blast hadn't been near him. Had that been a grenade? It sounded like it. He would swear they made his ears ring in a very specific way.

He proceeded into the living room, where he shot the first fast moving thing he saw - because they were hunters, and honestly didn't move that quickly - and found Bobby on the floor. Although a snarky remark occurred to him, he bit it back, and simply gave him a hand up. It looked like it physically pained Bobby to accept it, but he did. "These wolves are fucking nuts," Bobby said. "Something's wrong with them."

"I think they were trying some magic that went wrong," he said, pulling the book fragment out. "Found this in the garage."

Bobby scowled. "Magic? Idjits." He took the scrap and attempted to read it while gunshots rang out from the far part of the house. After several long seconds, Bobby exclaimed, "Oh, what the fucking hell is this?"

"You can't tell?"

"It seems like ... someone tried to cobble a spell together with disparate parts? Something that couldn't possibly work. It's part alchemy, and part curse."

"Curse?" John was a little surprised, but he didn't know why. "Is that why it exploded somebody?"

Bobby stared at him like he was unsure if he was joking or not. "It what?"

"I found a hand and that, and some ripped up clothes. Nothing else."

"Well, balls. Something went wrong, and yet it's still affecting the wolves. I wonder if it's what they intended, or something else entirely."

"How can we tell?"

Bobby looked like he was about to say something, but a noise distracted the both of them. It was a cross between a slow air leak and a growl. The source quickly revealed itself, as a dead werewolf, with a nice big hole where its heart used to be, rising to his feet. You could see through it, down the debris choked hall, where another dead werewolf with a missing heart was regaining her feet as well.

"Oh, fuck me," Bobby exclaimed. "They've made themselves undead?"

John realized he might have found this funny, if he wasn't smack dab in the middle of it.

* * *

Dean felt this urge to get this thing over with as quickly as possible. Not only because he wanted to hurt these bastards, but because he was worried about Cecelia. She was doing well, better than he probably would in similar circumstances, but she was flagging, and pretty much holding on by her fingernails. He wanted to get her help before she slid into shock, because he was terrified it would kill her.

He and Sam unearthed the weapons cache, which had a lot of stuff basically useless to them right now - holy water and salt, for example - but also some they could use. Dean gave Cecelia his coat, because he noticed her shivering. It was probably due to the blood loss, because he knew from personal experience it made you really cold. But it was also a potential sign of shock, which instantly flooded into his mind, and made him take a second to quietly panic before getting on with things.

But also? It stoked his rage. It was still there, burning in his chest, and it helped him ignore the ache in his face, and in his knuckles. He wanted to kick some more ass. And they were letting him.

It was his idea to cut the power to the cabin. That was a first in most horror movies, right? Strip away everything modern, and break it down to a primal fight for survival. They were already there - why not invite these motherfucking assholes to join them? Also, Dean happily volunteered to be bait. They must have known about him, considering the guys he fought in the driveway, so why not offer himself up? They probably had no idea, but they really shouldn't have wanted to be with him in a confined space right now.

Dean lurked in the shadows of the tree line, waiting for them to come out of the cabin, because he knew they would. They didn't disappoint him.

Maybe a minute or two later - which seemed both endless and like no time at all - the cabin door opened, and a man came out gun first. He was lanky, with short brown hair, and a stressed look to his eyes. Right behind him was a more solidly built man, also armed, but not man mountain Mike. Dean whistled sharply, to make sure he had their full attention. It made them both jump, and turn their guns his way. "Thought I might give you a chance to give up before things get really messy," Dean said.

The better built man laughed, while the one in front frowned. "You're Dean Winchester, right?" he asked.

They knew him? He wondered how, but figured it didn't matter. "So my reputation proceeds me? Cool."

"Look, just give us the Star and we'll get out of here, all right?" The first man said. He sounded like Clay, the guy Mike was talking to earlier.

"Even if you weren't lying, I think everything's gone too far to just walk away, huh?"

"Listen, you psycho brat -" the man behind Clay said, taking a step forward.

Clay shoved him behind him, and said, "I didn't want to hurt anyone, okay? Everything's gotten way out of control, and I'd just like to get this over with."

The guy behind him was looking around at the ground, and Dean figured he realized what was missing when he nudged Clay, and quietly asked, "Where's Cecelia?"

"That makes two of us," Dean said, pretending he hadn't heard the other man's question. "Tell me, how did you picture this night going? Did you really think you were going to get the necklace and walk away? You realize how stupid that sounds, right?"

Clay scowled at him, but finally looked at the ground, where Cecelia had been. His eyes darted instantly back to Dean. "Did you do something with Cecelia?"

"You think I was just gonna let her lie there like a dead dog by the side of the road?" It was better if they thought she was still dead. It gave them an edge of surprise if nothing else.

Clay studied him for a moment, as if trying to judge his veracity. Dean didn't sweat it, because he knew he was an excellent liar. He'd been lying since he was old enough to mourn his mother. "You're a little young to be sentimental, aren't you?"

"And you're a little old to have your ass kicked by me, but we all have burdens we gotta live with."

That got a snorted laugh from the man behind Clay, who looked away when Clay glared at him.

Dean heard a faint rustling in the underbrush, and looked to see Mike in the woods before he opened fire with his AK-47.

Dean quickly bolted deeper into the trees, the sound of bullets ripping branches and shrubs to shreds following him, as he thought he heard Mike yelling as he fired. It wasn't words, just an inarticulate roar, and seemed to suit the muscle head. Dean had figured they'd try a flanking maneuver, but he had really hoped they wouldn't bust out the automatic weapon. It was too easy to imagine randomly catching a bullet. If someone absolutely had to murder him, he preferred they do it with intent, and not accidentally.

He heard bullets fly past him way too closely, buzzing like mechanical wasps - and what a frightening thought that was - and because it was dark and the woods, it all looked pretty much the same. But he knew which way he was going, and where he was headed. Mentally, he was commanding them to be ready, especially since he didn't know if his luck would hold out.

If he blocked out the bullets, and the homicidal 'roid rager on his tail, it was almost peaceful. The woods were lush, the undergrowth not currently attempting to kill him, and he wasn't even cold, thanks to all the running for his life. See? There were bright sides. He just had to block out the attempted homicide.

Finally he heard the sound he wanted to hear - the gun clicked empty. Dean stopped short, panting for breath, and turned to face his would be killer. "You know only assholes own those, right?"

This close - which wasn't close at all, but still nearer than Dean would have preferred - Mike looked like his muscles had muscles, and it must have been painful to be him. He was wearing a t-shirt that showed off his freakishly lumpy and vein riddled arms, and his neck was almost the exact same diameter as his head, so it wasn't clear where one started and the other stopped.

Mike scowled at him, flinging the gun behind him. Only then did Dean realize he had a strap on it. "Great last words." He pulled out a handgun, but before he could shoot, an arrow split the dark and skewered his wrist. It went in one side, protruded out the other, and got stuck in the middle.

Mike didn't even react to the pain of it. He only looked down when the gun slipped from his fingers, and even then he seemed confused by it more than anything else. "Is this all you got? You're pathetic."

"Really? 'Cause you came here to kill us all, and we're still alive, so I think that's a star in the column for us."

Mike stared at him a moment, gimlet eyed. His eyes were pale and small, and utterly blank. If he had any kind of internal life, it definitely didn't show. Except his body. Maybe the gym was actually his life.

Dean knew he'd let himself get distracted, because he saw Mike tense, and he knew what was coming, but he did nothing to get out of the way as Mike lunged for him, catching him in a tackle and driving him down to the ground. Mike straddled him and threw his big, meaty fist at his face, in spite of the arrow through it. "Let's see how well you do fighting a real man, punk," he snapped.

The first punch was startling, because Mike clearly had fists of cement, and he felt his just healed over lower lip split again, and flood his mouth with blood. But even though it felt like his consciousness was spinning like a top across a waxed floor, training and muscle memory kicked in to save his ass.

Mike came back with another punch, but Dean caught his arm, and with his left hand, hit the arrow in his wrist. Blood spurted on both of them as it opened the wound wider, and Mike roared in pain or surprise, or maybe some combination of both. But it was enough of an opening that he was able to twist his body and buck Mike off before rolling clear and jumping to his feet. It was a good thing too, because Mike recovered fast, throwing another punch that Dean just barely managed to dodge, feeling the wind of his fist just missing his face. Okay, yeah, this guy was a fucking nightmare, and he was going to crush him into a fine powder if he didn't figure out a way to put him down fast.

Dean decided to go for the good old throat punch, but that was a mistake, as it was like punching tanned leather. Shit - he actually had throat protection somehow. He had barely registered this before Mike punched him in the gut so hard he actually left his feet.

Dean stumbled back and fell on his ass, sure the fact that his stomach was empty and had already taken a bit of a beating tonight was the only reason he wasn't puking his guts out.

With him out of the target area, another bolt flew through the air, and hit Mike in the upper left thigh. It didn't look like it had gone all the way through. And just like before, Mike stared at it dumbstruck, like it didn't hurt, and he had no idea where these things were coming from.

Dean didn't wait for him to resume his attack. He rolled to the side, and kicked the arrow all the way through his thigh.

Mike felt that, judging from the shout of pain. This time the blood didn't spurt, simply cascaded down his leg, but as long as he was hurt, Dean was good with it.

Dean was back on his feet, trying to ignore the solid, terrible ache in his gut, as Mike stumbled, grabbing his leg. "Motherfucking pansy," he snarled.

"Those are terrible last words," Dean said, throwing all his weight into a solid right hook.

The funny thing? He made full contact with Mike's jaw, and may have hurt himself more than Mike. On contact, the pain jolted up Dean's arm, and he had to back off and shake his hand as Mike stood there, looking uninjured by the punch and generally unimpressed. "That's all you got? You're a pathetic little boy."

"And you're a man fighting a little boy, so what does that make you?"

Dean had barely finished saying that when Mike lunged, a freight train on a mission, and he got his left - uninjured - hand around Dean's throat and bodily slammed him into a tree. The pain rode like lightning down his spine, and he reflexively tried to take a breath, but couldn't. Mike's hand was already squeezing off his air supply. "Can't make a smart ass remark now, can you?"

Dean wondered how he was supposed to respond to that, when he thought he saw movement in the darkness. Or maybe it was simply the spots exploding in front of his eyes?

Mike turned, but not in time, as Cecilia got him right in the back of the head with a shovel. The metal rang like a bell as it made contact with his skull, and he staggered away, letting Dean go. He took a greedy breath as Cecelia continued smashing Mike in the head with the shovel, dropping him to his knees. She still didn't stop.

She smashed him until he was full on the ground, and then kept hitting. Dean briefly considered interrupting, then figured nope. She seemed to be working something out. Besides, Mike probably had a skull so thick you'd need a chainsaw to make even the slightest dent in it.

When Sam joined them, still holding the crossbow, she finally stopped. She leaned on the shovel like it was a cane, breathing heavily. Dean honestly wasn't sure how she found the energy in her current condition.

Sam looked down at the bloody, meaty ruin of Mike's face, and asked, "Is he still alive?"

A quick glance showed Dean his chest was still rising and falling. It was a good thing Mike wasn't good looking, because, oof. He was going to look like a raw hamburger patty from now on. "Sadly, yeah."

Cecelia wiped her face like she had been crying. "You okay, Dean?"

He nodded, even as that ache in his gut continued. He'd had worse pain in his life. "Yeah."

"Good," she said, nodding. "Now let's go take my fucking house back."

Sounded like a plan to him.


	9. Horrorscope

_9 -Horrorscope_

Sam knew he was taking a bit of a risk, but truth be told, he couldn't fight like Dean and Cecelia. Not only because he was smaller and younger than everyone else, but - and he would never admit this - something in his stomach turned at hurting people who were just people. Of course, he had no objections to self-defense, but anything further than that left him with a queasy feeling. Not that he told them that.

Luckily, he didn't have to. Cecelia wanted to keep him out of the brawl, probably because he was just a kid, and he got this alternate mission, which was safer. At least in theory. He would crawl through the cellar's escape hatch, and get the satellite phone, which was hidden inside a false panel beneath the work table. (Of course - now that she told him, it made perfect sense.) He'd put in the call to Melanie McCrae, as Cecelia had given him the number. Maybe it would speed up her arrival by five minutes, but at least it was something he could do that didn't involve gratuitous amounts of violence. Although, honestly, he should be used to it by now. He'd already been in lots of fights, and had killed a few monsters.

And hey, he shot Mike, right? But that was different. None of the arrows were going to kill him, and as it turned out, they barely hurt him. The one he was iffy about was the one that ended up in Mike's thigh. He'd been aiming for his knee, and missed, and nearly got a lethal shot out of it. There was a major artery in the thigh. If Sam had hit it, Mike would have bled to death in under two minutes. The fact that Dean then proceeded to kick it deeper into his leg made him cringe, but it must have missed the artery. Although it might have been a kinder death than having his head caved in with a shovel. Dean said he was still alive - and he sounded disappointed enough that Sam believed him - but Sam found it hard to believe that wouldn't change. Cecelia really went to town on him. Not that he could blame her, especially if he was the one who killed Hector.

The knot in his stomach ached, and he made himself not think about that, because if he did, he would get so sad it would paralyze him. He shoved it aside and kept pushing on, secure in the knowledge that, once they were safe, he'd probably cry for two days straight.

Sometimes Sam wanted to scream. Why did they have to live like this? Yeah, other people had it way worse than they did, but why was asking for some peace and quiet too goddamn much? Sam would be super okay if he and Dean just went off and lived on their own. Fuck their Dad. Addicted to vices or not, Dean seemed to know how to pay bills and get things done, even if he was a raging jerkwad half the time. They'd be fine. They could change their names and be other people, with other lives. That seemed to be Sam's number one dream right now, although most of the time he went and lived on his own, leaving Dean to his own deeply weird devices.

Sam had even investigated legal emancipation, but that seemed like a bridge too far. Also, the moment he showed up in court and talked about the dangers of being in proximity to monsters and demons would end with him undergoing an involuntary psychiatric hold. He wanted to be free of all this bullshit, but not if that meant he was imprisoned elsewhere.

It was terrible crawling back through the claustrophobic dirt tunnel to the cellar, but it wasn't even the worst thing that happened to him tonight, so he had to keep it in perspective. Once he reached the end, he listened carefully. It was unlikely anyone was in the cellar, but he had to make sure. He had a gun, of course, but he didn't want to use it.

It sounded quiet, so he pushed open the hatch, and found someone had thrown stuff all around, but had never found the hidden panels. Now hiding everything made sense to Sam, although this simply couldn't have been the circumstances they were worried about.

The hatch to the kitchen was open, but from the sound of it, no one was in the room. Also, it was dark with the electricity out, so Sam felt covered regardless. But he could hardly start talking without being found out.

He was going to have to go up the stairs and seal the hatch, wasn't he? And hope no one noticed or heard it.

Crap. And he'd been hoping this would be easy.

* * *

Once Sam was off on his mission, Cecelia gave Dean a choice on how he'd like to play this. Which was kind of silly, because she had to know by now how he wanted to play this - he was perfect bait, and he loved being the annoying asshole that kept crashing their murder party. He would be the loud idiot, getting all the attention, while she slipped in the back. Not only did it give him the feeling - erroneous or not - that he was doing something, but it allowed him to vent some anger, so he was golden. Cecelia didn't have enough energy to argue with him, but she did grab him hard by the chin, and tell him, "If you get yourself killed, I will find a way to bring you back, and kill you myself. Got it?"

"Absolutely." In the back of his mind, he did wonder what it meant that he kind of liked scary women. Probably nothing good. Oh well, nothing he could do about it now.

Dean snuck around to the front of the house, not really surprised that Clay and the other guy were gone back inside the cabin. They only talked with him as distraction, to give Mike time to flank him. They were probably waiting for Mike to come back, dragging his dead body like a trophy. He would be happy to disappoint them.

Dean waited the two minutes Cecelia asked him for, counting the seconds off in his head since he had no watch or anything, and in that stillness, he began to feel all the aches in his body. Yeah, sometimes it was fun to fight, cathartic, but it always left him achy and wondering why he did it. He was collecting scars like some people collected baseball cards. A stray phrase he once read somewhere floated through his mind -_ 'Someday this pain will be useful to you' _\- and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Unlike what his Dad said, about pain reminding you were still alive, Dean found pain usually only made you wish you were dead. It wasn't helpful or useful. It only reminded you you were a fragile sack of wet meat, and could be taken out at any time. It finally occurred to him to search his pockets for a random painkiller, as occasionally he had some, but then he remembered Cecelia had his jacket. Oh well, She could definitely use it more.

When the time passed, he walked towards the cabin. There was no need to use stealth. They weren't watching the front, because they were confident Mike would end him, and the door wasn't even locked, because they broke it in.

The door was slightly ajar, the splintered jamb preventing closure, and Dean took a breath before shouldering it open and shooting two guns like he was in a John Woo movie. "Yippee ki-yaa motherfuckers!"

Of course, the big problem with the two guns at once thing was you could never aim properly, and bullets went everywhere, but that was the whole point. Dean saw a couple guys dive for cover, overturning chairs to get behind them, while one of the guys he fought in the driveway was unconscious on the couch. Dean aimed the guns high, so while the bullets went everywhere, they mostly hit the ceiling or the back walls. If he wanted to actually put someone down, he would have used a different approach.

One of the men behind a turned over chair fired back blindly, and Dean ducked back outside. His aim was even more compromised than Dean's, but he was going to give him a brief respite to keep them engaged and focused on him. "What the fuck is your damage, kid?" Clay roared.

Dean almost asked him how much time he had, but nah. No need to go into that now.

"Where the fuck is Mike?" the other guy shouted.

"Oh, you mean the musclehead with a big gun to make up for his shrunken balls? I left him out in the woods, along with your other guy. For murderers and thieves, you guys really suck at this." Dean didn't even look past the doorway, he simply shot blindly into the room, this time with one hand. He'd emptied the other handgun, which was a present from Larry, or whoever the fuck he and Sam tied to a tree, and because Dean had no need for it, he dropped it. All he wanted to do was gain their full attention, and he had it.

"No fucking way did you beat Mike," the other guy shouted, between random and pointless gunshots.

Dean waited for a lull to peek back inside the room, and he saw Clay looking over the chair, so he took a potshot at him. He ducked, and Dean was sure he hadn't gotten him, but scaring him was good enough.

"You got me. I'm Mike. I decided I liked Dean's face and body better , so I took them."

"Fuck me," Clay said. "You are insufferable."

That actually made Dean smile. Coming from these guys, it was a compliment.

* * *

"Are they zombies now?" John asked.

Bobby stared at the dead werewolves, now back on their feet. They were coming towards them, snarling and dripping drool. "Maybe?" he guessed. Honestly, he had no idea what these things were. Besides ugly and smelly, but they were that way before all of this.

"So do we kill them like zombies?"

Part of Bobby wanted to snap at him how was he supposed to know, but another part of Bobby realized it didn't matter. If removing the head didn't kill them, they had more problems than undead werewolves."Might as well. You got something -"

Bobby hadn't finished the question before John had holstered his gun, and pulled a machete out of his coat. It was a compact one, but still. "You were wearing that just in case?"

John shrugged. "Didn't see the harm in it."

At least Bobby knew where Dean got it from now. Who knew it ran in families? Like alcoholism and being hunted by demons.

The nearest werewolf didn't charge them more than it lurched awkwardly towards them, but John stepped up and took his head off with one swing of the machete.

But coordination was only a specific problem of this werewolf, as the female werewolf jumped on John before the body of the first even hit the floor. He lost a grip on his machete, which slid under a broken down chair, but managed to keep her out of biting distance by grabbing her throat. Bobby had no idea if whatever they had would transfer via bite or scratch, or which would transfer - werewolf-ism? Zombie-ism - but it was probably best to avoid it.

Bobby retrieved the machete, and John snapped, "No hurry or anything."

"Quit yer bitchin'," Bobby replied, and put all his weight into the swing of the machete. It sliced through her neck clean, and her head fell off and right onto John's face. That really hadn't been his intention, but it was pretty funny.

John scowled at him as he got back up to his feet. "Thanks." It was amazing how much sarcasm you could put into a single word. Bobby had to fight down a grin.

"Holy shit, what the fuck is going on?" Rosie exclaimed, coming down the hall. She had a gun in one hand, and a big hunting knife in the other, and had blood splattered on her shirt and face, but none of it looked like hers. "Silver seems to work for one minute, then they get up again. Is this some new kind of werewolf?"

"They did a spell that went wrong before we arrived," Bobby told her. "That's probably the reason for the stench too, although I'm not sure how."

Rosie looked between the both of them, as if trying to ascertain whether they were kidding or not. Bobby was almost offended by the thought, but yeah, it was a lot to swallow. How could a simple hunting job go so goddamn wrong so fast?

Bobby was still wondering about that when he spied movement in the corner of his eye. Turning to look, he saw it was the head of the male werewolf, opening and closing its jaw, eyes fixed on them. Was he trying to use his mouth to pull himself along the floor?

Hold the fucking phone. The head was still alive-ish after being chopped off? What kind of fuckery was this?

And what exactly were they going to do about it?


	10. Midnight Cowboy

_10 - Midnight Cowboy_

The next time Dean took a quick peak inside the cabin, he saw movement in the archway beyond the living room, and knew Cecelia had joined them. Neither Clay or his pal had noticed, and Dean made sure they didn't by firing off a couple of shots in their direction.

Another shot rang out, this time from the kitchen, and Clay's pal slumped to the floor. Clay turned, gun raised, only to see Cecelia already had him dead to rights, gun aimed at him, and her eyes were bright with fury. Dean advanced inside the cabin, clearing his throat, so Clay remembered he was fucked. He could shoot one of them - he would never get them both.

"You bastard," Cecelia said, spitting out each word like a bullet. Dean had never heard it said with such fury and weight.

Clay understood then how deeply fucked he was. He dropped his gun and held his hands up, showing he was now unarmed. "Cecelia, I -"

"Don't you fucking say my name," she said. She was in the archway now, the separation point between the kitchen and the living room, and even from here, Dean could tell her gun sight had never wavered from his head. "You motherfucker. You come into my house. You murder my husband, you try to murder me, and you tried to murder children. Did you know you could get this low? When did you lose your soul exactly?"

"I didn't want -"

"You didn't want what, Clay? You didn't want to hurt anyone?" She laughed mirthlessly. Tears streamed down her face, but her upper lip was curled in a snarl. Dean knew tears of rage when he saw them. "But you did. For a man who didn't want to hurt anyone, you certainly have a shit ton of blood on your hands."

Clay had the unmitigated gall to look to Dean for what exactly? Support? Pity? Dean glared back at him, trying to channel murder through his eyes. Did he think he would give him a break? Everything was Cecelia's call, but if it had been Dean's decision, Clay's brains would already be smeared on the living room wall.

"I'm sorry-" Clay began, and he was cut short by a bullet Cecelia fired, which hit the chair maybe half an inch from his ear? It was a good shot, precise, and Dean couldn't help but admire it. Clay cringed, as he should have.

"Keep your meaningless apology. It changes nothing. You're a cold blooded murderer, Clay. I want you to look me in the eye, and tell me why you did it."

He sighed, and his shoulders seemed to shrink as he came to grips with the fact that he was probably not leaving here alive. "We only wanted the Star. We would have cut you in."

"No fucking means no, you worthless sack of shit."

"The world is going to hell no matter what we do. We might as well -"

"Fuck you and your excuses. No one had to die for this," she said. She had stopped advancing, but she had never moved the gun, not even a single centimeter. As soon as she squeezed the trigger, it was a good center of the head shot. A cleaner kill than he probably deserved.

Dean thought he heard the creak of a floorboard, but Cecelia knew what and where it came from since this was her home, and she quickly stepped back into the archway as a gunshot cracked the plaster, coming from down the main hall. Cecelia fired back at them, and Dean kept his eyes on Clay, which was why, when he saw him grab his gun off the carpet, Dean instinctively fired. He didn't even think; he simply reacted. His Dad would have been proud. Well, in theory.

Because Clay was still partially behind the overturned chair, Dean saw blood splatter and heard his body collapse to the floor like he was made of stone, but he didn't know how bad the shot was. Until he heard a thud of something else down the hall, and an unfamiliar male voice say, "Okay, okay, I surrender. Please don't kill me." The other man. Dean had almost forgotten about him. That was sloppy on his part.

Cecelia looked down at Clay, and up at Dean. He expected horror, but didn't get it. There simply seemed to be a question in her eyes. "He grabbed his gun," he explained.

She nodded, and looked down the hallway. "Face down on the floor. Keep your hands where I can see them," she ordered, as sternly as any cop.

Dean stepped forward, to make sure Clay didn't rouse enough to try anything again, when she shot him a concerned glance. "Dean, stop, you don't wanna see this."

But he'd already gotten close enough to spy the pooling blood on the floor, and it took him a second to figure out what he was looking at. That was Clay's body all right, but not all of it.

Dean wasn't sure whether to vomit or be impressed with himself. He took the top of Clay's skull completely off. His brains weren't on the walls, but kind of oozing all over the carpet. He wasn't going to be a threat to anyone ever again.

Oh hell, why couldn't he barf and be proud of his marksmanship at the same time?

* * *

It wasn't only the male werewolf's chopped off head. The decapitated female was also still chomping away. Bobby wanted to call it an unconscious response maybe, except the eyes were obviously moving too. Somehow, they were still alive in an undead sense, despite being without the rest of their body.

On a terrible hunch, Bobby kicked over the man's body, and it groped blindly for his leg. The bodies were animate too, for what good it did them. How could they live as a body without a head, or vice versa? Jesus Christ, wasn't this a plot in one of those trashy horror movies Dean watched? Maybe the wolves watched the same movie, and got an idea.

"Are we all on drugs?" Rosie asked. "'Cause that would explain everything."

"What kind of spell were they casting that it went this wrong?" John asked. The werewolf's head had managed to bite the carpet closer to him, and he kicked it across the room. It still showed no signs of staying dead.

"Well, at a guess, immortality, or maybe invincibility."

"But they ended up extras in the Reanimator sequel?" Rosie replied. Oh, yeah, that was the title of that movie, wasn't it? Sounded kind of familiar.

"Who'd wanna live like this?" John asked, gesturing vaguely to the room. Or the two bodies and the two heads, which were all in separate corners.

"I think that's where the "went wrong part kicks in," Bobby said, scratching his head. "Now what the fuck are we gonna do about this?"

They all considered it, as they looked around the grimy living room. It had been thoroughly trashed, in that there were several holes in the walls, all the furniture was broken, and part of the carpet was burnt. And that was all done long before they entered the house.

"Crush the bodies?" John suggested. "Or maybe pulp them in a wood chipper."

Rosie stared at him. She was a short, zaftig woman with striking hazel eyes, and a delicate voice, all of which left you a little unprepared for learning she was a long haul truck driver who cursed like a sailor, and had a specialty in constructing improvised explosive devices. People who just assumed she was a dainty flower usually got a nasty left hook, and she wore a silver spiked ring that would put a neat hole in your face no matter how hard she hit you. She was something. If only she were ten years older, Bobby felt they might have made a decent pair. "Messy, Winchester. We could save ourselves the clean up by encasing them in concrete."

John raised an eyebrow, almost like he took that as a challenge. "You got a cement mixer?"

"No, but I know where to steal one."

"Before we go that far, we could try the usual, and burn them," Bobby suggested. "Although let's keep the cement idea as plan B." Bobby was in no mood to dismember werewolves and wood chip them. This was supposed to be a simple werewolf hunt, and it had already gotten needlessly complicated and messy.

Rosie smiled smugly, like she won the argument, and more gunshots rang out deeper within the house. Rosie headed back down the hall, shouting, "Take the heads off! And watch out, 'cause they can still bite!"

John shook his head, but at what Bobby wasn't sure. The female werewolf head was now half way across the room, and at this rate, if they never moved from where they were right now, she'd get to them in an hour or two. Although he didn't really, Bobby did kind of feel bad for it. Who wanted to live as just a head? Okay, technically it wasn't alive, and it showed no genuine signs of awareness, but still.

"Could we find a counter spell?" John suggested. Bobby had to swallow a laugh at the "we", because when did he crack a book with him?

"I'm not a witch. It'd take ages to even narrow one down that might apply here. I don't suppose you know of any?"

"Not off hand, no." John walked over to the male werewolf's body, and nudged it with his boot. It reacted, kind of, and he wondered aloud, "If we dismembered them, would all the parts be animate?"

Oh holy hell, Bobby hadn't thought of that. Would they have hands crawling around and legs hopping? A comedy of horrors. "Let's not find out."

"But what happens if we light the place up, and they still walk? We'd have created the weirdest fire hazard ever. And when does the movement stop? When they're bone fragments? Before?"

"I'm assuming once we burn the muscles away, the bones, animate or not, aren't going anywhere." It wasn't like bones had any ability to perambulate on their own. Of course, skulls shouldn't have that ability either, but the female head was still pulling itself on the carpet by its teeth. The first time he saw it happening, it was the most bizarre thing Bobby had ever seen. It still was, but now amusement and pity were warring it out in him for supremacy. It was funny in a very dark, sick way. God, he was so glad the kids weren't here.

"I hope you're right. Because I don't even want to attempt to explain this to anyone else."

Neither did Bobby. How and where did he even start? And what did he call these things? Werewolf zombies? Undead werewolves? It certainly gave a new meaning to the term restless leg syndrome. That was it - he'd say they came down with restless corpse syndrome.

Okay, yeah, he was getting giddy. They needed to get this wrapped up and soon, or he was going to lose the few marbles he had left.


	11. Let Them Grind

_11 - Let Them Grind_

While it was all kicking off upstairs, Sam had managed to get a hold of Melanie on the satellite phone, and he dutifully reported she sounded pissed off. She could join the club.

By the time Sam had joined them, Cecelia had kicked throw rugs over the ruin of Clay and his other, even deader friend, although Sam had seen such violence before. But Dean didn't tell her that, because he sensed it was a terrible thing to say, as well as have happened. Dean had also managed to stop dry heaving, which felt like a personal accomplishment. Mainly because it hurt. It was like he was being punched in the stomach from the inside out, and his stomach already hurt from being in too many fights tonight.

Dean headed outside to clear his head, and remembered there were more dead bodies out here. Fantastic. He found a space in front of the house where he couldn't see the bodies or smell them so much, and sat there with his head in hands, trying to mentally will his stomach to just fucking stop it. He'd killed before. Yes, they were technically monsters, but wasn't Clay a monster? Simply a human one. But it felt different, and he didn't like the feeling. Could a soul hurt?

He had no idea how long he'd been out there when Cecelia came out and joined him. She sat down next to him, and only then did he notice she had a bottle of bourbon with her. Cecelia had also taken a moment to wash the blood off her face, which was good. Dean knew how itchy old blood could get. And speaking of which, he must have had some on his face and neck, because he could feel it now.

"This is not something you should do regularly, okay? I just think you probably need it right now." She took off the cap, took a swig, and handed the bottle to him.

Had he ever had bourbon before? He wasn't sure. But he took the bottle with a nod of gratitude, and gulped until his stomach burned with it. It wasn't bad, and he was sure he'd had it before, maybe mixed with something else. He sighed, and handed the bottle back. "Thanks."

"Louie is all tied up, and Sam is keeping an eye on him, but we probably don't need to watch him. He's done. He has the brain cells to realize he lost, and best case scenario is years of imprisonment."

"It helps that the ringleader had his brains blown out right in front of him."

"That didn't hurt, no." She was quiet a moment, before she said, "I'm sorry you had to do that, Dean."

He shook his head, unsure why he was doing it. "It was Clay's choice, really. He knew what would happen if he went for the gun. Or maybe he thought I was just a stupid kid who wouldn't shoot him."

"I think from the start they underestimated you, which is the dumbest thing anyone could ever do. You're amazing, you know that?"

Dean kept shaking his head, and for some reason, tears were welling in his eyes. Why? Hadn't he been humiliated enough? "I'm really not. I just did what I had to do." She'd put the bottle on the ground between them, and he snatched up and tried to gulp down the lump in his throat. It wasn't working, but he felt, if he kept doing this, at some point it would.

He had to stop to take a breath, and that's when he realized he was starting to feel light headed. Too much booze on an empty stomach. He knew the feeling well. Dean put the bottle down and tried to wipe the tears from his eyes with his forearm. "Am I just another kind of monster?"

"Oh honey, no," Cecelia said, putting her arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. Either she smelled liked blood, or he did. Oh hell, they both probably did. "I'm sorry I had to put you in that position, but you saved my life, you know."

"See, I know that. So I can't figure out why this is bothering me so much."

She kissed him on the forehead, and gave his back a comforting rub. It felt good to be this close to someone and not be in a fight with them. It had been a while since that had happened. Too goddamn long. "Because this is too damn heavy for you, as it should be. Put the blame on me."

The booze was making him feel warm and kind of numb, so the tears were drying up. Dean welcomed this turn of events, and tried to lean in to the alcohol. He wiped away the residual tears and snot with the back of his hand. "No, 'cause it's not your fault either. You didn't know these greedy dumbfucks were gonna turn up and destroy everything. I mean, this is an example of living by a sword and dying by it, right? Except the swords are guns, and we're all monster hunters, which couldn't be more ridiculous if it tried."

"Yeah. But you shouldn't be in the monster hunting game."

"I'm nineteen."

"When did you start?"

That shouldn't have been the poser that it was. Maybe it was the bourbon, because he would swear this question had never been that hard to answer before. "I dunno. Fifteen, sixteen?"

"Dean." She said it somewhat sternly. She knew he was lying to him.

"Well, what counts as hunting really? I mean ..."

"How long have you trained?"

It wasn't an unanticipated question, but he still found it difficult to answer. He wanted to say ever since Mom died, but was that true? Maybe it only felt like that. When was the first time Dad took him out shooting? "Seven maybe? Eight? What counts as training?"

She exhaled heavily, like she'd been punched in the stomach. "That long?"

"I may be wrong."

"Yeah, I'm afraid you're lying to up your age." She rubbed her eyes, which looked a bit teary too. She had had one fucking horrific night, and somehow it wasn't over yet. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"For what?" As far as he could tell, she'd done nothing wrong, certainly not to him.

"Everything." And after that cryptic comment, she grabbed the bourbon bottle, and stood up. "Come on. You probably want to get cleaned up before Melanie and her people show up."

"Do I?" He looked down at himself. Considering he hadn't been shot, there was a startling amount of blood on him. Also dirt, which made sense, and was still less startling. It was funny, in a dark way, that none of the blood belonged to the man he killed.

But she was right. Not only did he need to clean up, but he needed to shape up, as he couldn't let Sammy see how wrecked he was. Tonight had been rough enough. He didn't need to know about the rest of this shit. If he could carve him out a little peace of mind, he had to try. He owed him that much, if nothing else.

* * *

Sam knew this night would end in a bloodbath, one way or another, but there was no getting around how fucking ugly it all was.

He did wonder why they even attempted to cover up the dead in the living room. Blood had soaked through the cloth and made it cling to the shapes beneath. It wasn't so bad with the corpse on the far side, who clearly died from a chest wound, but the one nearest the kitchen had a deformed, slightly deflated head. It made Sam a bit ill to look at the weird shape, and he had to look away quickly, because his mind would try and guess what the skull must have looked like, and it was nauseating. It must have shattered when hit by a bullet, like an elephant had stamped on it.

Yep, he was done thinking about that.

There was a living member of the group, who seemed to know he was lucky to still be alive better than anyone else. His hands were bound behind his back - Sam had no idea why, but Cecelia had a drawer full of plastic zip ties in the kitchen - and he was sitting on the end of the sofa, where one of the guys Dean beat up earlier was still laying on it, out cold. Or asleep. He made vague snoring noises from time to time.

The conscious guy wouldn't meet Sam's gaze, and actually tried apologizing once Cecelia left, saying they didn't know there were kids here, blah blah blah, which led Sam to snap, "Shut up." Murder was okay as long as only adults were involved? He wasn't interested in making this man feel better about his life choices or homicide.

There was also another guy, in - of all insulting places - Cecelia's and Hector's bedroom. They cuffed him and made sure he had no weapons on him, but he was no threat, as apparently Dean gave him a concussion, and he couldn't technically move without being really sorry for it. How hard did Dean hit him? Maybe he got it from hitting the ground. Either way, the asshole was nothing to worry about.

Cecelia returned with Dean in tow, and goddamn, he looked rough. Not as in beaten up, as he wasn't more beaten up than he was earlier, but just drained. His eyes were red like he'd been crying, but one of his eyes was puffing and swelling, so maybe it was related. Sam had only had two black eyes in his life so far, but both times, he was reminded anew how much they sucked. It was a deep, dull ache in your face, and sometimes your eyes would start watering for no reason. But Sam still thought it was actual tears. Dean's poker face had slammed in, and that was usually a sign he'd collapsed and let out something genuine, and therefore had to punish himself by pretending not only that it didn't happen, but that it never happened ever.

Sam wondered who this was for. Did it make Dean feel better to pretend he was some unfeeling hard ass? Because Sam knew him. He knew Dean was a metal shell full of marshmallow fluff. He liked to pretend he was the hardest, coolest guy, but Sam knew him all too well. He was also the biggest geek, but, again, refused to acknowledge that. Maybe it all bit too deeply into his persona of Dad's perfect soldier. It wasn't like Sam could ask and get an honest answer out of him. The Winchester family ran on generally accepted lies.

But when Dean passed him, Sam thought he smelled alcohol, and glancing across the room, he saw Cecelia putting away a bottle of booze. Okay - what just happened? She didn't like him drinking, she already made that clear. So what the hell happened? Now he was curious.

He heard the fight from the cellar, kind of. As much as it was a fight. It didn't last long, but they rarely did when the guns came out. He heard Cecelia loud and clear, but he heard Dean's voice but never his words. He'd dropped his voice down to dead serious low, which generally didn't carry. Then gunfire, and then ominous quiet. After the gunfire, the silence was always ominous. Sam knew it was safe to come up when he heard Cecelia barking orders at someone, meaning she survived, and didn't sound stressed, simply pissed off. He didn't hear Dean at all, but that didn't bother him.

Now he was sure he had missed something. What? He could ask, but he already knew he probably wouldn't get a straight answer. He'd just have to figure it out for himself.

Sam was already building a narrative in his head when Melanie and her people arrived. Melanie was a tall redhead who looked like she could snap most of them in half over her knee, although one of the guys with her had a barrel chest and well muscled arms that at least put him in her league. Brother? Couldn't say - there were no real introductions.

Melanie saw the bodies on the floor immediately, and asked Cecelia, "You shot 'em?"

"Yep."

Dean was loitering at the mouth of the hall, arms crossed over his chest, looking uncomfortable. But when Cecelia said that, he looked briefly surprised.

Oh holy shit - Dean killed one of these guys? That had to be it.

Melanie shrugged. "If we were going the legal way, I'd say clear cut case of self-defense. But we're not going the legal way." Melanie stepped up to the couch, and loomed over Louie menacingly. He was already looking down at the floor. It was hard to say if he was more ashamed or more afraid. Probably a little of both. "You broke the code. You know what happens, don't you Louie?"

He didn't speak or look up, he simply nodded. Somehow that was more frightening than seeing the dead bodies in the living room.

Melanie then gestured to the men she brought with her, and said, "Boys, Cecelia, meet me at the car. We need to get you to a hospital ASAP."

"I'm fine," Sam said.

"I'm okay," Dean lied.

She shook her head, and gestured at the door. "Don't care. Out, now."

Melanie seemed exactly like the type of person you crossed at your own peril, so they obeyed, going outside, where there were two other people, a man and a woman, zipping bodies into body bags. That really hammered home the point they were all lucky to be alive.

Melanie had a new kind of truck, and they all got inside, with Dean helping Cecelia up into the cab. She was doing astonishingly well for some one who had been shot four times, but she definitely seemed tired, and Melanie was right: she needed a hospital immediately. Dean probably needed someone to give him a once over too, although he'd never admit that.

He sat beside Dean and shut the truck door. Even though he'd cleaned up, Dean still smelled like blood. It occurred to him he associated the smell of blood with Dean, and wondered what that meant. Well, beyond having an absolutely shit-tastic childhood. "You okay?" Sam asked. He had a feeling he would lie and play the unconvincing "everything's great" card again.

But to his surprise, Dean sighed and sank back into the seat, as if extremely tired. "I'm not sure I've ever been okay."

Wow. Whatever booze Cecelia gave him? Dean totally needed to drink it more.


	12. Choose The Pain You Want

_12 - Choose The Pain You Want_

Bobby was sure he was going to have nightmares about this for a while.

They went through the house, decapitating werewolves who weren't yet beheaded, and then collected the heads and bodies in different rooms. He felt like a serial killer who decided to do all his victims on one night. Of course, others were doing this too, it was just a lot. It didn't help that the heads kept trying to escape their room. One or two heads chomping their way across the carpet? Kind of funny. A half dozen skulls doing this? Kind of terrifying. It reminded him of a swarm of insects, only it was a swarm of heads. A pack? What was a group of heads called? He had no idea, but he imagined a murder of heads would be perfect.

Jesus, he was losing his mind, wasn't he?

Once they had rounded them all up and shut them in separate rooms, they all looked at each other, and some laughed, while others just looked bereft. Although he hated to be presumptive, Bobby felt pretty confident in asserting this was the weirdest fucking hunt any of them had ever been on. And honestly, he thought werewolf biker gang had been a lot.

There were nights when Bobby was horrifyingly sober, and he realized this weird kind of bullshit was going to haunt his life forever. He was never going to be some old crotchety asshole who ruled his auto junkyard with an iron fist. He was going to be long dead, thanks to some wendigo, or poltergeist, or, hell, bugbear - who the fuck knew at this point?

Honestly, Bobby had never wanted to be one of those people who died in an old age home, whose mind had checked out long before their body did, as that sounded like a nightmare. But getting eaten or otherwise taken off the board by a creepy crawly didn't sound fantastic either. He wasn't one of those clowns who wanted to live forever, because that sounded terrible. But nothing really sounded great. Living forever or getting slaughtered by a demon. Couldn't there be some kind of happy medium, where he only did this for a few more years, then got some sort of amnesia that wiped his mind of all monsters, and let him live a normal life?

Once they had all the bodies and heads, it was only a question of scale. Did they want to try and burn the bodies/heads on their own, or did they just want to light up the whole house and be done with it? They took a vote, and burning down the whole fucking house won in a landslide. Rosie suggested some small incendiaries that would help spread the fire around quickly, and some chemicals she knew would hasten the burn and raise the temperature, so the tissue they needed burned away would do so rapidly. As it turned out, she was the ideal person to bring on this mission.

While they retrieved chemicals from the kitchen and bathroom that would speed up the fire, Bobby realized he was hearing this strange sound, and only when he was passing the door in the hall did he realize what it was. The heads were attempting to gnaw on the door. They weren't beavers, or rodents of any kind, so they weren't able to do it, but you could hear the teeth scraping against the wood. He shuddered, and splashed some of the chemicals on the door. The sooner this place burned, the better.

Once they were done, and all a little high on fumes, they went outside, and Rosie set off the incendiaries. There was a bloom of a small fireball, completely contained within the house, although a couple of back windows broke, and the place caught quickly.

They stood well back, but close enough that, if something came walking or gnawing out of the fire, they could take care of it. Which probably wouldn't happen, but what if it did? They couldn't take the chance. The fact that this was completely bananas didn't escape Bobby at all.

Also, the heat was startling, even standing as far back as they were. The reek continued to be absolutely revolting, as the smoke added even more unpleasant smells to the general miasma. He almost had a heart attack when something appeared to roll out of the flames, but it turned out to be a part of the house, not a skull.

After a sufficient amount of time, when the very structure of the house started to collapse, did any of them relax. Nothing was probably crawling/chomping out of there.

"Well, what's say we never speak of this again?" Julie suggested.

This was met with a round of nods. "Who the hell would believe us anyways?" Rosie added. A great point, Bobby imagined telling Rufus about this, and Rufus accusing him of being full of shit.

He and John walked back to the truck, as they rode in together, and they were both unusually quiet. What the hell had gone on in that house? Bobby had considered briefly saving the piece of book John had found, but ultimately he threw it in the fire. Incomplete as it was, it still felt a little too dangerous to be out in the world, even in his hands. But it also reminded him, if the werewolves had managed to do the spell correctly, all of them probably would have been torn to pieces.

God, being a hunter sucked.

They drove back to the motel also in silence, but this time it wasn't as fraught as it usually was, mainly because this night had been so fucked up. Bobby could still hear teeth scraping against wood. He was going to have to drink an entire bottle of whiskey if he had any hope of getting to sleep tonight.

He was parking when John decided to check his phone messages, and when he killed the engine, he was still doing it. Bobby wanted to snap at him to get out of his truck, but he looked a little alarmed. Bobby immediately wondered if the boys were in trouble, but that couldn't be right, could it? "Something wrong?" he finally asked.

Bobby felt a twinge in his gut when John simply said, "I have to go." He got of the truck, and headed for the Impala, parked on the other side of the lot.

"What is it?" Bobby shouted after him. Shit, this was going to bug him. He hoped he was wrong, and the boys were okay.

Leave it to this terrible night to somehow get even worse.

* * *

Sam realized the genius behind this all when Melanie brought them to the hospital, and flashed her real badge and started talking to the emergency room nurses. Normally, all gunshots and stab wounds had to be reported to the police, but Melanie was the police, so none were called. She would probably squash all official records of this. Diabolical, and also really smart. She knew her shit.

They needed to rush Cecelia off to surgery, which wasn't a huge surprise. Dean needing a couple of stitches in his arm was, though. Apparently one of the guys tried to stab him(!), although he only caught it in the forearm, and had apparently wrapped the wound in gauze and duct tape himself, which did keep blood from leaking out. But Sam had to go off and punch one of the chairs in the waiting room, instead of Dean, which he really wanted to. At what point in this shitty night did he decide to go into his suffering in silence routine? Of course, he'd probably also killed someone too, so Sam did figure he needed to cut him a little slack. Which is why he punched furniture instead of Dean's arm.

Sam felt good about leaving Dean alone in the emergency room for his stitches, because it was a male nurse doing the sewing, which meant Dean wouldn't try and flirt and make an ass of himself. But when Sam came back, Dean had the nurse laughing at his terrible jokes, and he was clearly charmed by him. This was just reflex with him, wasn't it? Flirt with anything with a pulse. There were so many times when he found being Dean's brother unbearably embarrassing, and this was one of those.

But while Sam loitered, wondering if anyone would noticed if he got up and left, he remembered that Dean had killed one of those guys. Maybe all of this was part of his coping mechanism. Pretending everything was normal - well, normal as it applied to them, which was as far from it as you could get - and this nurse wasn't sewing up a stab wound he got from another man who had tried to kill him two hours or so ago. The fact that Dean could even be smiling was low key amazing. But Dean's power of denial was something of a superpower.

The nurse, Tomas, left to get Dean some antibiotics, and as soon as he left, Dean's expression collapsed. "Any news on Cecelia?"

He shook his head. "Too soon. You know, you could have mentioned you were stabbed."

Dean looked at his left forearm, which now had neat, even stitches where the gash had been, and a bit of a yellowish hue, probably from the topical antiseptic used on it. "I wasn't stabbed. It was a slash, and not that bad really. I've had worse."

"Dude, do you want me to punch you? 'Cause I'm about to."

"I've sewed up worse on Dad." Dean's eyes suddenly widened. "Oh shit. Dad."

Both he and Dean shared a similar look of horror. They had both completely forgotten about him. "You're gonna make me do it, aren't you?" Sam asked. But why ask? Of course he was.

Dean lifted his injured arm. "I'm a little tied up here."

Sam rolled his eyes, and sighed. "Fine. But don't try and con Tomas into giving you painkillers. I know you've been drinking,"

"What?" Dean protested, a little too firmly. "I would never ..."

Sam pointed at his own eyes, and then pointed at Dean, a little pantomime that he was keeping his eyes on him. Of course Dean was setting up Tomas to give him painkillers. No one knew how to play that game better than Dean.

Out in the hall, Sam checked his pockets for his phone, but he probably left it in his backpack at the cabin. Dean had his phone in his coat, right? But they never tried it, simply because they knew from experience you couldn't get any signal at Cecelia's and Hector's place, that's how remote they were. As far as he knew, neither Cecelia or Hector had phones, only a landline. And that's when Sam remembered Cecelia had been wearing Dean's coat. Shit.

Amazingly, he came across a pay phone in one of the smaller waiting rooms. He had no idea there were any left anywhere. They seemed like odd things that only existed in old movies. Sam checked his pocket for change, and genuinely found some, which was also weird. But before he called him, he sat down and composed, in his head, what he'd say.

Sam already knew he couldn't tell him everything. There was too much, it was too involved, and there were some things he was simply never going to say._ "Hey Dad, Dean totally killed someone. It was self-defense, but ... kinda crazy, huh? _ _Oh, and Hector's dead. We think Cecelia's going to make it, though." _

He felt an instantaneously lump in his throat remembering Hector. Shit. Tears threatened too, and he knew he'd promised himself he'd let it all out when he had the chance, but he still wasn't quite there yet. He had to call Dad first. Then he'd find a nice, private corner somewhere, and bawl his eyes out.

You had to put these things in proper order. Sometimes it was the only hope you had of remaining sane.

* * *

Okay, so, he lied. It wasn't even the first time Dean had done that in this very hospital.

He was trying to con Tomas into slipping him some painkillers, but ibuprofen was all he offered, so Dean passed. They wouldn't get him nice and numb. He'd also intended to make up a story about him saving Cecelia and getting stabbed for it, but in the end, he couldn't. Yeah, some hero he was. His reflexes killed someone. Tomas had also noticed the discoloration on his knuckles, the kind that screamed he'd been fighting, but Dean did his best to downplay that.

The bourbon was wearing off, which was disappointing, because his head was starting to hurt, and now his stomach was rumbling and demanding food, even though he wasn't sure he wouldn't get the heaves again. His arm felt fine, though. Tomas was really good at putting in stitches. He almost asked him for some tips, before remembering he couldn't.

He would have stitched up his own arm if he had the time, but gauze and duct tape were the quickest option. As it was, Tomas had complimented him on his wrapping skills, because almost no blood had leaked out of it. Duct tape was amazing ... until you had to take it off. Then it was a fucking nightmare. Dean assumed the hair would grow back on his arm within a week or so.

This wasn't exactly like the last hospital he'd been in, which was in New York City. That had been crammed with people, noisy, busy, stuff going on everywhere and constantly. This was a small one, in a rural part of California. He could actually wander halls, alone, for quite some time. It was a much smaller place too, although not as small as he honestly expected. Of course, being this late at night ... or was it morning now? He honestly wasn't sure. Last time he saw a window, it was dark out, but maybe that had changed.

Dean was ostensibly looking for Sam, but the more time he spent doing that, the more he realized he was really tired. Well, the good part about it being a small place was Sam would find him if he stayed put, so he returned to the waiting room, which was empty, and actually quiet. No TV playing here. Just the occasional taps of a nurse on a computer keyboard. Dean sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs, and decided to wait until Sam found him.

Next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake. Dean was surprised to be woken up, and surprised to find he had somehow nodded off. He would have sworn he just sat down. "Do I need to ask them to pump your stomach?" Sam asked, sounding disgusted. He collapsed into the empty chair beside him.

"I didn't get any painkillers, dude," he replied, rubbing his neck. It was a little sore.

"He was immune to your charm, huh?"

"Ha ha." Yeah, that was probably the depressing takeaway from all of this.

Sam looked red eyed and sad. Had he been crying? He didn't blame him. Dean was holding everything in until he could be alone, and then he'd figure out what to do with his emotions. Drinking them away sounded great, but that was always only temporary. When you were sober again, you were in the same boat. Maybe heavier drugs were called for. "Call Dad?"

Sam nodded. "Got his voice mail. Did you know pay phones were still a thing?"

"No fucking way. This place has a working pay phone? The ones we found in New York were all trashed." They were, and for some reason, that had made Dean sad, for reasons he couldn't name.

Dean's mind wandered, and he found something nagging at the back of his mind. Why was his first reflex to pull the trigger? Dad had drilled him on that, sure, but ... what was Dad training him for exactly? He could kill monsters. He felt relatively confident about taking on demons. So why all the "shove the emotions aside" and "don't think, just react" shit? What was the training actually about? He knew if he confronted him, he'd only say he was trying to prepare him "for anything", but Dean felt he had long past proven he was ready for anything. So what was this all about? The yellow eyed demon? Except Dad made it very clear he was his, and he wanted Dean and Sam out of it. So, again, what was the training for exactly?

His thoughts were derailed at the appearance of Melanie McRae, who showed up with a couple of paper bags, which she gave them before sitting down beside Dean. "Long night. Thought you guys might be hungry," she said.

Dean opened his bag, and before the scent of burgers hit his nose, his stomach was desperately growling, like a very angry bear. Okay, he got the hint. "Have you heard any news about Cecelia?" he asked, willing himself not to cram the whole thing into his mouth at once.

Melanie nodded. "She's out of surgery, she's doing great. Considering she was shot four times she's honestly astounding." She kept her hair cut super short, highlighting the sharp, angular planes of her face. She was striking, but not exactly pretty, which wasn't an insult, simply an observation. Her eyes were very pale, and there was a hardness to them that suggested she had seen a lot of shit, both as a cop and a hunter. Dean also had the feeling you never got in an argument with this lady, you got in a war, and she hadn't lost one yet.

As Dean ate his burger, her eyes flicked to his left arm, and he knew what she was going to say before she said it. "Interesting detail to leave out, kid. You were stabbed?"

"Slashed, and it's not so bad. Eight stitches only." He almost added he'd had way worse, but stopped in time.

She raised an eyebrow at that. "When did that happen?"

"Just when I found Cecelia. I got in a fight with this guy. Wasn't a big deal."

"So one of those incapacitated guys we found back at the house?"

"Yeah." This felt like a trap, even though Dean couldn't say why.

She studied him for a very long, uncomfortable moment. "You're one of the Winchester boys, right?" He nodded. "You fight a lot of adults?"

"Only when they annoy me," he said, trying to make it a joke. Considering her expression didn't change, he wasn't sure it worked.

"I have to say, the pair of you have done amazingly well."

"Our lives are pretty crazy," Sam said, also trying to make a joke out of it, and also falling flat. Wow, she was a tough audience.

And the more she gazed at him, the more Dean worried that she knew the truth. She knew Cecelia couldn't have killed both those men. But did it matter? She wasn't going to arrest him.

Still, in all honesty, Dean never wanted anyone to know. If this was a secret he could take to the grave, he definitely would. And he never ever wanted Sam to know. How could he look him in the eye ever again?

But that was a worry for another time. Tonight, he was going to try and see if he could fool himself into forgetting it had ever happened.


	13. Handle It

_13 - Handle It_

Considering he'd gone twenty or so hours without sleep, John felt frighteningly alert. He knew from experience that it was a temporary situation that would quickly go south. But until then he could run on adrenaline if he had to.

He'd had way too many spontaneous visits to out of the way hospitals in his life. The boys probably felt the same way. At least this was a small hospital, and fairly easy to navigate. It didn't take him long to find Sam and Dean in the waiting room. Sam looked fine, if tired. Dean was a little more beaten up, but better looking than he expected. He had a brief urge to hug them, but it came and went in the same instance. He probably smelled like smoke and chemical accelerant, and he really didn't want to explain that to them. "Any news on Cecelia?" he asked.

They both stood as he came near, and he could see how drawn Dean looked. Either he was in pain, or something else was eating at him. Maybe both. "She's out of surgery, and she's okay. We haven't been allowed to see her because we're not family."

"The hell you aren't." Why did hospitals do this? It was probably a security measure, but in all honesty, it was easier to sneak into someone's room than get permission. They were alone, but he still stepped closer and dropped his voice. "Is the Star secure?"

Dean nodded, and pulled the top part of a silk bag out of his pocket. "I have it."

"Why?" He felt an irrational surge of anger towards Dean. He was in a public place with a dangerous artifact that was barely secured. What the hell was he thinking?

"Cecelia had it in my coat, but I took it from her before we got here. I didn't want any medical personnel accidentally handling it."

John nodded. "Good thinking." His anger ebbed, but he wondered why he got so instantly angry with Dean. Had he expected him to find time to destroy the unbreakable object? Hide it better? It was probably safest with him, given all the choices. He survived, and kept Sam safe. That was really all that mattered. "You didn't mention Hector. Do I assume ..."

Sam looked away, eyes growing teary, while Dean simply swallowed hard and nodded. "He didn't make it."

Damn it. He had been afraid of that. Hector was a genuinely good guy, of a kind they didn't seem to make anymore. He was also one of the few friends he could talk about service stuff and hunting stuff with. And he got killed by fellow hunters. That seemed worse than being killed by a demon. You expected a demon to try some shit, but a fellow hunter? He almost asked how many of them were dead, but reconsidered. The boys were probably traumatized enough.

"Are you guys okay? I'm gonna try and go see Cecelia," he told them.

Dean nodded. "We're fine." Sam was still looking away, possibly trying to get a hold of himself.

John clapped Dean on the shoulder, and gave him an encouraging smile, but he still looked pale and tired. Speaking of no sleep, they probably hadn't had any either. They were an entire sleep deprived family.

John went up to the front desk, and identified himself as Cecelia's brother. She scrutinized him for a long time, probably because he was white, but she had no way of proving he wasn't, so she let him go.

Cecelia was asleep when he came in, and he was quiet so as not to wake her. She looked almost as pale as the sheets she was laying on, and harsh dark crescents hung beneath her eyes. It crossed his mind, for what seemed like the hundredth time tonight, what kind of lowlife bastard could shoot her? That was a level of depredation that was hard to fathom.

Her hand was out, over the blanket, and he touched it, only to find it rather cold. He still felt a pulse, it was just startling. Did she lose a lot of blood? It might explain the IV she was currently hooked up to.

She muttered something, but it was too low for him to hear. He glanced at her face, and found her eyes were open. Glazed and a little pained, but she was conscious. "Didn't mean to disturb you."

"Have you ever tried to sleep in a hospital? You didn't, trust me."

John pulled up a chair at her bedside, and felt he should say something, but words were perfectly inadequate for this. She lost her husband. How did "sorry for your loss" cover that? After Mary died ... it was like the end of the world. He could barely even remember the days and weeks afterward. It was like he was in a fugue state. The loss of a spouse was just too huge, and the words seemed stuck in his throat. After a moment, he said what he could. "Thank you for saving my boys."

"I did no such thing. They saved themselves. And I kind of wanted to talk to you about that. I'm going to assume therapy's not your style, so how about just being a Dad to your kids for a while? Not a drill sergeant."

He hadn't expected that. "Uh, what?"

"Dean was ready to fight his way through all of them, which, you know, pretty normal for a teenage boy. The abnormal thing is he actually could have. There's such a thing as being over trained, and I think he passed it ages ago."

John did wonder what this was about. Wasn't Dean's over training a good thing? Wasn't being able to fight the hunters a good thing? How was this bad? "He has to be ready. They both do."

"For what, John? And don't say the demon again, because, if what we've heard about this thing is true, no normal human is ever going to be ready to take on a demon that powerful. Even you can't."

"I'm working on it." He was. It had taken him to several dead ends, but he was sure he'd find something soon. Odds were something would pan out.

"So what's the side mission? What are you actually training them for?"

"Survival."

Her eyes were sleepy and drug glazed, sure, but Cecelia had this way of looking at you that made you feel exposed. Somehow she was giving him that look now. "John."

Just the way she said it, she knew he was lying. But he could hardly tell her the truth. If she was alarmed now, wait until he told her the yellow eyed demon was somehow infecting certain children with his blood, children like Sam. And he had some kind of plans for these kids, although John had yet to find a demon who would tell him what they were. It wasn't a huge guess to assume that those kids might be turned into monsters.

For a while, John thought he could do it. He convinced himself, if the fate of the world were at stake, he could do it. But several nightmares had convinced him of the truth. He couldn't kill Sam. Asking him to kill his own son was a bridge too far.

Dean had to be better than him. He had to be strong enough to do what John couldn't. Ideally they could find a way to save Sam, although John hadn't found one yet. But if not, and if the yellow eyed demon got to him - the last demon he encountered was more than happy to tell him yellow eyes knew all about him and his "quest" - it fell to Dean to do it. John honestly didn't know when or if he'd be able to tell when Dean hit the correct level for that. He had a soft spot in him that John didn't want to crush, but the logical side of his brain said he needed to. If Dean showed a bit of weakness at the wrong moment, it could cost everyone. The world would pay. If the moment came, he couldn't hesitate. And yet, he couldn't exactly tell Dean this, could he? Just like he couldn't tell Cecelia.

After a moment, he decided a truth with some lie mixed in would have to do. "I have reason to believe that the yellow eyed demon is after me."

She gazed at him placidly, her haunted eyes giving away nothing. "As in hunting you?"

He nodded. "And if something happened to me ... I can't leave the boys unable to defend themselves."

"But they wouldn't last a second against the yellow eyed demon."

"Maybe not. But what else can I do? If I'm not there to keep them safe, I have to hope Dean is strong enough to pick up the slack."

John had his hand on the edge of the bed, and she put her icy hand over his. "What you need to do right now, John, is take them somewhere relatively safe and just be their dad for a couple of months. They need to be kids; they need to be stupid and silly, and not always on the verge of being crushed. I swear, if they don't get a break, Dean is going to have an ulcer and a nervous breakdown before he's twenty one. And if your time is limited, don't you want them to have some good memories of you? Ones that don't involve death and monsters?"

She had a point. But if he was at all honest with himself, he'd admit being a father to them, all by himself, was more terrifying than most demons. It wasn't that they were bad kids; in fact, the opposite was true, and somehow it made it harder. Sometimes he looked at them, and all he could see was Mary in both their faces, and it made him indescribably sad. Especially since he knew there was no way she'd approve of how he was raising them. When he took a moment to reflect on it, he could easily imagine all the ways she could curse him out. She wouldn't just have divorced him - she would have beaten him into a coma.

But these last couple of months had been crazy. for both him and the boys. They probably all deserved a break. If he didn't know of a place, he could surely find one. "That sounds like a good idea."

"Of course it does. I may go do it myself, once I've recovered, and once the drugs have warn off, and I actually come to grips with the fact that Hector ..." She closed her eyes, and it seemed like a wince. He squeezed her hand in solidarity. The drugs were probably a mercy now. When the real pain hit - and oh god would it - she might be unable to function for a while.

"I know. I wish I could save you the pain." He did. He wished he could save his boys the pain of everything that was sure to follow in the next few weeks, months, and years.

But even he wasn't that good, was he?

* * *

_Two Days Later_

In daylight, the cabin still looked cozy and charming. But Dean would never see it that way again. Probably Cecelia wouldn't either.

Melanie and her mysterious "people" had done a good job of cleaning up the blood and the bodies. You might even think a crime never happened here. Except for the occasional odd bullet hole, and those patches where the dirt was darker than it should have been.

Dad had suggested they get the stuff they left behind, and maybe do a little cleaning up before Cecelia got out of the hospital and returned here, and it was weirdly thoughtful of him. Of course they said yes. They had a job to do.

As soon as Dean set foot in the living room, and saw the overturned chair, he imagined Clay laying in an ocean of his own blood just beyond it. But he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and looked again. It was simply the chair, and a huge bloodstain that probably would never be cleaned up. Dean knew the feeling.

Cecelia still hadn't said a word. She was still saying she killed Clay. In the end, it didn't matter, as these men had come to kill, and were killed first in some instances. He knew she was doing this for him, and who knew? Maybe Dean could convince himself he didn't do it. Maybe someday, he'd forget.

They told Dad what they were going to do, and he wanted to help, but they told him they had it. It wasn't easy to say why they thought they should do it themselves, but they did.

Dean and Sam gathered the stuff they needed from the cellar and the woodshed, and headed out into the woods. Save for making sure he didn't trip with this fucking heavy bag on his back, he mostly kept his eyes up, looking towards the tops of trees and the overcast sky beyond, and Sam did too. They wandered the woods, until they came to a spot so generic, with no recognizable landmarks, that Dean stopped, and said, "Here."

They didn't really speak while doing this. It seemed like a solemn occasion, and they treated it as such. Dean's face ached, but he did his best to ignore it. It was always the same after he'd been punched in the face. It throbbed and ached like a toothache without a tooth, and even a breeze could make it hurt. It would go on like that for a week or so, and then one day, he'd wake up and find the pain was so deeply muffled, it was on the better side of numb. And then in a couple days, it was gone. He hoped the same was true of the bruise on his stomach too. Looked like someone tried to tattoo him with a Rorschach test.

Dean finally realized why this was so solemn for them. They were symbolically burying Hector. Because he wouldn't have a proper funeral. He'd have a wake, and his body would be fed to the fire. Hunters always burned. Sometimes even before they were dead.

They said nothing as they worked, which was kind of odd for Sam, who usually complained about so much digging. But this was for Hector, who was more than Dad's friend to them. He was family; he really was their Uncle Hector. Never mind that they had no blood or genes in common. He was a rare spot of kindness in a world that didn't have enough of it.

They dug a deep hole, going maybe four and a half feet into the dirt. Sam had the warded box where the Star now resided, along with a lock that would take some magical shit to open. Dean set it in the bottom of the hole, and then upended his flask full of holy water on it. Maybe it wouldn't do anything. But he hoped the wood absorbed it, and if any evil bastard ever found this, they'd get burned.

Then, as soon as the box was in the hole, Dean emptied the small bag of fertilizer they found outside the woodshed, around the back. It was pure shit, and smelled like it too. It'd have to stand in for the animal corpse. On the plus side, it would probably encourage plant growth, and soon this blank spot would be full of lush undergrowth, disappearing even more into the woods.

That was why he and Sam had picked a place as anonymous as possible in the woods, and went out of their way not to notice their route. As added security, they wanted to be unsure where they hid this. So tomorrow, next week, next month, they'd have no idea how to find it again. The earth would swallow it whole, and never give it up again. Hector gave his life to protect it, and they wanted to honor that by making sure it was always protected.

They filled up the hole with the remaining dirt, and then they scattered the remainder around, using their feet to kick over some forest debris, and they didn't stop until you couldn't tell someone had been digging here.

Dean took a moment to wipe the sweat off his face, and mentally remind himself he didn't cry in front of Sam. But it was like being at a grave site, and they just stood there for a moment, saying goodbye to Hector in their own quiet way.

Once the sweat on his skin started to turn cold, he gathered up everything they had brought that they weren't leaving behind, and shoved it all in his backpack. "Let's go," he told Sam. It was the first words anyone had spoken in, what, almost an hour? Maybe more. It now seemed weird.

Dean hoped that, at some point, he'd stop losing everyone he ever cared about. But he had this sinking feeling, it was only the beginning.

* * *

_The End _

_N.B.: In case you're wondering why I called this Slashers, it was kind of a joke on me. Because I used so many genre horror tropes in this story - isolated cabin/home invasion/dark woods/cursed object/werewolves/black magic/zombies (?) - I decided to name it after one of the few I didn't use. _


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